


The Clothes Thieves

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Sharing Clothes, ace and aro characters in chapter 5, alternate endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 60,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bucky keeps finding his clothes already worn. He opens his closet, and there they are, neatly folded, but already worn. Someone, somehow, keeps sneaking in and stealing his clothes, wears them, then returns them."<br/>~<br/>This story has alternate endings. Chapter 1 sets the plot, so you need to read that. Starting from chapter 2, there are unrelated three-way poly relationships. Choose your own.</p><p>1. Bucky 2. Clint/Steve 3. Sam/Clint 4. Clint/Tony 5. Natasha/Clint 6. Bruce/Clint 7. Tony/Natasha 8. Steve/Tony 9. Thor/Clint 10. Pietro/Clint 11. Nick/Clint 12. Steve/Darcy 13. Clint/Phil 14. Maria/Clint 15. Tony/Bruce 16. Thor/Jane 17. Natasha/Maria 18. Natasha/Pepper 19. Thor/Steve 20. Tony/Thor 21. Steve/Natasha 22. Nick/Natasha 23. Natasha/Wanda 24. Steve/Sam 25. Pepper/Clint 26. Rhodey/Pepper 27. Scott/Clint 28. Rhodey/Sam 29. Tony/T'Challa 30. Bruce/Steve 31. Thor/Bruce 32. Thor/Natasha 33. Natasha/Bruce 34. Rhodey/Tony 35. Sam/Tony 36. Natasha/Sam 37. Rhodey/Clint 38. Surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky

Bucky keeps finding his clothes already worn. He opens his closet, and there they are, neatly folded, but already worn. Someone, somehow, keeps sneaking in and stealing his clothes, wears them, then returns them. Bucky can't figure out how, for once, and he's kept watch for sixty three hours before Steve's convinced him to get some sleep.

Thing is, the clothes smell good, worn like that. Gone is the sharp smell of detergent, replaced with something homey and warm. They're clean, all of them, no stains or sweat or rips, but they smell like sunlight and wind and hugs.

At first, he thinks it's Steve, but Steve smells differently. Bucky has checked. That's how he's found out exactly how ticklish Steve is on the side of his neck, but that's a story for another time. Bucky is left with secretly enjoying this, though he keeps on trying to catch the mysterious thief in the act. He ends up sniffing everyone, from Stark to the staff that cleans up the common rooms, to Natasha and even Bruce. Nobody smells like his returned clothes, and Bucky starts thinking that perhaps the thief's smell needs to be mixed with his own to obtain the delightful effect Bucky keeps basking in. And isn't that a thing to consider. It feels like he's needed to create this feeling of warmth, a little like the other person might be incomplete. It also means that he can't eliminate anyone from the long list of suspects.

A couple of weeks later, another smell is hanging off his clothes, just as sunny as the other one, but it feels like a shared kiss under comforters, interspersed with mirth and chuckles.

It's baffling.

Bucky falls in love with it, this thing that keeps happening. There are two persons out there that are doing this, and he doesn't know why exactly, but he doesn't think it's out of malice. But it starts smarting, after a while, wearing worn clothes not enough anymore. He wants the real hugs and the real kisses and the real laughter. He's aware he won't get all that, because he doubts the thieves are driven by romantic intent, but perhaps he can weasel himself into a hug? Yeah, that would be nice. And he smiles wistfully at his closet, placing the note he's written on top of his t-shirt.

' _Please. Come out. I need you.'_

It's too much, and whoever's doing this will get creeped out most likely, but Bucky forces himself to close the door behind him.

Two days later, he finds a note on his nightstand, a piece of black cloth next to it.

' _Trust us?'_

It's typed and printed, so Bucky can't tell who it is by recognizing handwriting.

It takes him a week to work up the nerve to fit the blindfold over his eyes late at night, and he lies down, waiting.

He's startled when a warm hand touches his shoulder, and he hasn't heard anything, despite the fact that he's been straining his hearing. The bed dips on both sides, and the hands multiply, with such gentleness that it leaves Bucky trembling. It's... nothing happens, well not in the way of getting naked and sweaty. But an entire world of sensation shakes Bucky to his core, hugs and cuddles, pecks and longer kisses, snuggling under the comforter. It's amazing, better than anything, fingertips running over his body, lips touching the skin of his neck, his forehead, his mouth.

He falls asleep sated and content, and he expects to wake up alone.

So when light falls onto his closed eyelids, and there are still two bodies around him, Bucky takes a deep breath. He's going to know, finally. Be able to love them back.

His exhale is slow and shaky, as his eyelids flutter open, and he's ready.

Bucky's ready to live.

~

[Bucky in hoodie from Tanouska.](http://tanouska.tumblr.com/post/156977636174/bucky-sniffing-his-hoodie-as-inspired-by)


	2. Clint & Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's not beta'd. Let me know if you find any irksome mistakes.  
> Thank you for reading!

"What are you doing?" Steve asks as he sees Clint carefully close the door to Bucky's bedroom behind him.

"Um... nothin' um," Clint mumbles as he clutches a piece of black fabric to his chest.

On a second look, the thing in Clint's hands seems suspiciously like one of Bucky's hoodies. Clint doesn't even own black clothes, as far as Steve's noticed.

Before he can question Clint further, he's gone and Steve is left to stare at the walls, wondering just how weird the new century can get.

~

Steve keeps watching, and after a while he figures out Clint's activities. He's wearing Bucky's clothes, then returns them. Obviously, Bucky has no idea it's Clint, but he seems to enjoy it. Steve's caught him pulling the hem of his already worn hoodies over his nose too often to ignore. He doesn't do the same with the ones that smells like detergent. It's entirely too interesting.

Endearing.

Steve catches himself staring, over and over again, first at Bucky, but then he finds himself captivated by the secret smile Clint does when he thinks no one is looking.

~

It's not long before he manages to corner Clint while he's returning a t-shirt. They're in Bucky's closet while Bucky's busy sparring with Natasha, and those two usually take hours before they give up trying to kill each other in the gym.

They stare at each other until Clint's shoulder slump.

"You know," Clint says, "the thing... and then," he waves a hand, "after..."

Steve raises his eyebrows and Clint snaps his mouth shut. But then he sighs, sliding to the floor to lean back on the shelves. Clint rubs his fingers through his hair, and Steve catches himself from almost touching Clint's short strands. So he kneels down in front of Clint.

"After," Clint sucks air through his teeth, "you know, the whole mind control thing," he says quietly, "I started wearing Nat's clothes. It smelled like home."

Clint pauses and Steve presses his fingers into his thighs. He wants to comfort Clint, had wanted to do the same back after they had sent Loki to Asgard, but had never known how to interact with Clint.

"But I stretched a pair of pants and she banned me from her closet," Clint continues with a small huff of laughter. He scratches his head, fixing his eyes on a shelf, and mutters "That's when I started wearing yours."

What... Steve opens his mouth to ask just that, but then he recalls how suddenly the new century felt more familiar, warmer somehow, like he'd gotten more comfortable in it.

"You said you felt like home after a while," Clint whispers, "and I thought it might help Bucky, too."

So that was what happened. Steve's heart gives a pang and he lets his hands do whatever the hell they want, like grip Clint's shoulder with one and his chin with the other, push his face up to look at him.

"It helped me and it helps him," Steve breathes.

"Yeah?" Clint asks, hopeful, and Steve hums in confirmation.

He pulls at Clint until he can wrap himself around him, content when Clint snakes his arms around his middle, holding tightly.

~

It's easier to get to Bucky's clothes when it's the two of them. Clint swims in the larger hoodies, and Steve is a close fit for the t-shirts, but they manage not to visibly stretch any item.

Steve holds Bucky's note in his hands, staring down at it as if it's trying to eat him alive. If they reveal themselves, this little bubble will be broken, and he doesn't want that. He wants to keep embracing Clint, to keep being allowed to sneak in his bed and sleep there where it smells like comfort. And he's never felt closer to Bucky, being kept an arm's length away since his friend's return. He gets it, Bucky had needed space, but that doesn't mean he had to like it.

The note is plucked out of his hands and Clint sits down next to him on the edge of Steve's bed.

"You should go to him," Clint rasps.

"We," Steve says immediately and Clint stills.

"Yeah?" His voice breaks.

Steve's throat closes around a lump, so he wraps an arm around Clint's shoulders in reply, and lets his lips press themselves on Clint's temple. The seconds trickle slowly, five, ten, then fifteen, and by the time he gets to twenty two, Clint twists closer. His mouth on Steve's is the best thing he's ever tasted.

They spend the day and night together, mapping out the contours of their bodies with their fingers and lips, securing this thing between them before they go further.

~

Steve wakes first, and he takes his time to look at the others' faces in the bright morning light. Bucky's on his back, with Clint tucked close against his side, holding him there with his flesh arm, Clint's head on his chest. Steve can't hold back the smile as he pushes strands of hair off of Bucky's forehead.

It's so peaceful, serene.

And when Bucky's eyelids flutter open, the wide smile he gets is the most beautiful thing he's seen in a very long time.


	3. Sam & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Vortex (happy bday miss!) and the Catnip (instead of cookies) who both requested Clint/Sam/Bucky. :)

It started off as a way to burn excess energy. Sam would visit the tower with Steve, Clint would have a smart mouth that would grit him on his last nerve, until they'd fuck fast and dirty in the nearest broom closet, and then Sam would leave.

It was fine, just a couple of guys who didn't really know each other, taking care of their physical needs without commitment. It wasn't like Sam could go around looking for dates, not with HYDRA out there, not with him making himself a target by hanging around Captain America all the time. Don't get him wrong, he doesn't regret his decisions, but as it was, he had limited choices.

He doesn't remember when they started using a bedroom with an actual bed for their encounters. Or when they started sharing breakfast. Or when Sam learned that Clint likes the snuggles more than the actual sex. Or when their kisses turned gentle and slow. One thing was sure, though. It was before they found Bucky, before they brought him to the tower because they needed a safe place to hide. Stark's been generous with sharing his space and his security system.

They've been mostly stuck in the tower, though, and if it weren't for the gyms and pool and the game rooms, Sam would have crawled up the walls by now.

And then there is Clint.

The first time it happens, they're on Tony's sofas in his massive living room, a bunch of others hanging around, Bucky on the armchair near the far wall, Steve arguing over something with Natasha in French, Bruce engrossed in trying not to fall asleep as Tony tells him all about Pepper's new venture idea. Clint shuffles in, and he sits right next to Sam, thighs pressed against each other, even though the rest of the couch is empty. Nobody bats an eye, like it's natural, and that's when Sam realizes that this thing with Clint is much more than a series of random fucks.

He's gone for Clint and given the way Clint sighs with satisfaction when Sam wraps an arm around him, Clint is gone for Sam as well.

It keeps happening, this closeness, but they don't hide it. And Sam discovers that he can make Clint blush heavily just by whispering "I love you" in his ear, a lot more effective than telling him how deep he wants to shove his tongue up his ass.

The entire thing is a lot softer than he thought Clint would ever be, but he likes it like this.

~

Clint notices it first, the way Bucky's eyes tighten around the edges when they cuddle on the sofa, or they way his mouth presses in a thin line when Tony kisses Pepper's forehead. It turns into Bucky staring absently at walls, into far away looks and sad curls of his lips.

Both Sam and Clint try to ignore it, and Sam's slightly more successful than Clint is, because one day he finds Clint wearing Bucky's hoodie.

"It's how they make puppies settle in their new homes," Clint defends, "they give them blankets that smell like their mothers."

"You wanna be his momma," Sam laughs, but he has to admit, it's not a bad idea.

It seems to work, after a while. Bucky looks a little more relaxed. So Sam starts doing it as well. Between him and Clint, they go through Bucky's closet with a little too much efficiency. They take great care, though, not to dirty the clothes, not to rip or stretch them. It's amazing how Clint can do that when his own clothes are a mess of stains and patches. But oh well, Sam loves his human disaster ass to pieces.

So he feels like he's somehow cheated fate by falling for Bucky. It's not fast, nor hard, but stretched over minute moments, glances stolen here and there. Sam starts yearning to take away that lonely look from Bucky's face, to care for him, offer him a piece of this incredible gentleness he's too lucky to have.

The realization, though, that he's actually smitten beyond friendly affection, hits him out of nowhere, along with crippling guilt. He doesn't give himself time to fret over it, though, and he tells Clint this in the darkness of their bedroom, while holding Clint to his chest.

"I'm in love with Bucky," Sam whispers.

Clint stills. He's completely rigid in Sam's arms. Utterly silent. The seconds turn into minutes, and with each one, Sam tightens his hold on Clint, pressing his forehead against the back of Clint's neck.

"Do you still love me?" comes after a long while, words broken and cracking.

"Yes!" Sam replies immediately. "Yes, yes, never stopped," he breathes against Clint skin.

It's the ultimate relief when Clint goes lax in his arms, then turns to face him. His eyes are wet, but he's smiling.

"Me too," Clint rasps. "Love you both."

So Sam kisses the dampness away, but it's no use, because more spills from his own eyes.

~

When they find Bucky's note, it's easy to decide what they want to do.

Easy to join him. Easy to share their affection, the caresses, the care.

It's easy and soft and gentle.

It's like nothing Sam's ever had before, and he wouldn't think it just by looking at Clint and Bucky's rugged exteriors.

The morning is the same, even after Bucky opens his eyes to see them there, and everything feels floaty, like the warmth of a slow spring breeze wrapping tenderly around his heart.

~


	4. Clint & Tony

Clint is on his way back to his room from the range, muscles aching pleasantly after his workout, when he notices the door to Bucky's room hanging open. And that door is never open. So he approaches carefully, peeks around the wall. What he sees stops him in his tracks, and he takes his time to consider walking in or moving on.

Inside the space, Tony stands looking lost. He's wearing a black hoodie too large to be his, and he's staring at his hands covered by the edges of the sleeves like he's not even seeing them there. He looks tired, dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, and that makes Clint move toward him.

"Hey, man," he says softly, "whatcha doing?"

Tony startles, but then his shoulders slump when he sees Clint. His mouth works wordlessly and he swallows a couple of times before he speaks.

"It all hints to it," Tony mutters, waving a hand helplessly.

Clint's never seen him like this before. "To what?" he nudges.

"The information is inconclusive," Tony continues, then bites his lip, and Clint waits patiently. "But it hints to him being the one that caused the accident. I mean," Tony's both hands move in front of him now as he starts talking faster, "it just says that, you know, the information dumped online from SHIELD slash HYDRA, that he was on a mission just when they went over that cliff, but the prime minister of, what's the name, and he was shot at a public speech, so really, inconclusive, but mom..."

He chokes on his own words and Clint stills when he realizes what Tony's talking about.

"I don't think--" he starts, but Tony interrupts.

"It's not his fault," he says. "If he did it, I mean," and then he looks at Clint, really looks at him, eyes distraught. "Wasn't your fault, either."

Clint finds himself swallowing, too, around the lump in his throat. But he pushes it away, because Tony looks like he needs a friend right now.

"So what are you doing with his hoodie?" he asks, keeping his voice as gentle as possible.

"I just wanted to know what it feels like," Tony returns, eyes skittering about the room, "to be in his shoes."

"It fucking sucks," Clint says.

Tony's gaze snaps back at Clint and he nods. "I tried to imagine," he breathes.

"Why would you do that to yourself?"

A shrug follows, and Clint is reminded of how exhausted Tony must be.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks instead.

Another shrug. Clearly, he needs sleep. Soul sharing conversations about brainwashing can wait. So Clint gently grips Tony's elbow, pulls him out of the room. It's startling how easily Tony follows. He's not himself, going utterly quiet again, eyes glazed over as he stares into space.

Clint considers his options while he closes the door behind them. The closest bed he has access to is the one in his room down the hall, so that's where he steers Tony. He pushes Tony into bed, tucks the blanket around him, and he doesn't know why he does it, but he sinks his fingers into Tony's hair, runs them through the short strands.

It's less then a minute before Tony's out for the count. With a sigh and a shrug, 'cos who knows what goes through Tony's genius head sometimes, Clint goes about his routine, starting with a shower. He goes in search of food after, then spends some time with Steve going over a fictional battle strategy that makes them argue good-naturedly while Wilson pokes fun at both of them.

When he returns to his room, Tony's still asleep. But the bed is big enough, so he scratches with head with yet another shrug before he slides in, back to Tony. In the morning, he's alone again.

~

Clint would lie if he were to say he hasn't been worried. He hasn't seen Tony in two weeks. The only place he hasn't sneaked into is the lab, so he finally makes his way there via the service elevator. The doors open silently, and he thinks JARVIS might have something to do with that, but he puts it aside for another time.

For now, he's too preoccupied with Tony, who's sitting on the floor, back to Clint, a laptop in front of him, and Clint approaches quietly. On the screen, a security feed of Bucky is displayed in black and white, most likely from one of JARVIS' cameras, since Bucky's sitting on the edge of his bed in his own room. Tony really shouldn't use those feeds for whatever he's doing.

What is Tony doing, though, Clint wonders as he watches. Bucky is holding a sweater between his hands, thumbs rubbing at the material, but then he presses it against his face, inhaling, before he hugs it to his chest.

On the floor, Tony wraps his own arms around himself with a shiver and Clint stills. He has some answers and more questions, but one thing is clear. Both Tony and Bucky are in dire need of comfort. Clint can't do anything about Bucky right now, but he can say something to Tony. Only... Clint's never been good with words, so he does the other thing that he can.

He kneels behind Tony and wraps his own arms around him.

Tony goes rigid in his hold, for a beat, but then he leans back with a defeated sigh.

They stay like that until Tony shifts, not to push away but to curl his fingers around Clint's wrists, drawing him closer, until Clint sits down to press against Tony's back, his legs extended along Tony's.

They keep quiet and tightly together until Tony falls asleep, even longer after that.

And Clint startles when he finds himself pressing a kiss to the top of Tony's head.

~

Invariably, Clint returns to his room at night to find Tony asleep in his bed, wearing Bucky's clothes. He doesn't do that in front of anyone else as far as Clint can tell. And for reasons Clint doesn't care to untangle, he wraps himself around Tony every single time. In the mornings, he makes sure Tony eats breakfast before they both go to their separate days. They don't talk to each other, not really.

Clint keeps watching Tony and Tony keeps watching Bucky, until Clint's attention shifts to Bucky as well. It's incredible, how much better Bucky's doing, nose pushed into the hem of his sweaters and t-shirts, the very same that Tony keeps returning to his closet, already worn. It touches something inside of Clint, some possessive streak he never knew he had, that whispers to him to go, care for him, comfort him. But Tony's got this covered, it seems, so Clint keeps away.

~

Clint slides in under the blankets, presses himself against Tony's back, as usual, with an arm wrapped around his middle. But this time, Tony is shifting, too animated to be asleep. It's a first. Clint waits, and a minute later Tony wraps his hand around Clint's.

"Is this a thing?" Tony asks, voice low and cracking around the edges.

A thing... aw, Tony. Yes, Clint would very much like it to be a thing, but he can't figure out what Tony thinks of all of this, or where Bucky fits in.

"If you want it to be," he says carefully.

Silence follows for long beats, and Clint's heart beats faster and faster in his chest despite his best efforts to keep himself calm.

"Yeah," comes next, "I want."

Tony turns his head, then, eyes searching and still half guarded. Clint does the only thing that makes sense right now, presses their mouths together. Given how Tony goes lax in his arms, it's a good thing. His goatee tickles Clint's chin, countering the dry slide of their lips, and he laughs into the kiss. But that's fine, because Tony laughs with him.

~

They start talking. About space and aliens, about Loki and betrayal, about fathers and mothers, about Bucky. It's mostly the hurt that they unravel for each other, but having someone who gets it listening, it feels like a caress to old scars.

"What's this?" Clint asks as Tony hands him a piece of paper.

"He left that in the closet," Tony says and sits down on the edge of Clint's bed.

 _"Please. Come out. I need you,"_ Clint reads from the note.

This... honestly, he's been expecting something like this. But it still stings.

"You should go to him," he rasps, and Tony's head snaps up at Clint from where he's been staring at his own hands.

"He asked for both of us," Tony says. "JARVIS' logs show he asked repeatedly for the security feeds to his bedroom so he can find the two persons that are sneaking in."

It sounds too good to be true. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes," Tony turns fully to face Clint, grips at both his hands. "Please," he adds, but there's no need for that.

So Clint presses a kiss to his cheek, leans back with a smile.

"We'll go," he says, and Tony grins victoriously. "But how do you think he'll react to us?"

"Hm," Tony hums, "we can just tell him."

Clint snorts. "Because we're both so good at talking."

"You're right. How about we just..." Tony waves toward the bed, "go to him."

"And startle him into choking one of us?"

"Not if he knows we're coming," Tony returns, eyes skittering about the walls, clearly planning something.

"So what do you suggest?"

"A blindfold!"

Clint sighs heavily. "Tony..."

~

"Clint makes the best eggs."

Shuffle and warmth and fingertips on his cheek.

"Kiss his forehead, he likes to wake up like that."

Tony's voice. Whispering.

And gentle touches to his skin. Stubble pricks at his temple and Clint squirms. Bucky.

He's warm and content.

"Ngh," he tries.

"Come on Legolas, wake up and feed us." Tony again.

"Ngh."

The fingertips press harder against the side of his face, the touch more bold. Clint nuzzles against the palm, a metal one, as far as he can tell.

"Babe," Tony says, "good morning."

And Clint can't help himself, forces his eyes open, because every time Tony says that, his face goes the softest Clint's ever seen it.

Today, though, there are two pairs of eyes looking at him heartily, and he smiles back at them.

"Morning," Bucky tells him, voice heavy with sleep.

Looks like Tony can't sit still again, and it's barely dawn outside, Clint notices as his eyes follow Tony puttering around the room.

"Coffee," is what comes out of Clint's mouth when he tries to say 'morning' back.

Bucky raises them both to a sitting position with a huff of laughter, while Tony comes back with a mug.

"So I had this idea..."

Tony talks while Clint leans back into Bucky's chest. They're sharing the hot drink, listening to things they can only half understand, but it sounds like Tony's old self.

The world feels balanced again.

~


	5. Natasha & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aro!Nat and Ace!Clint because of reasons.

It was an accident, the first time it happened. Clint was too sleepy to realize that the clean clothes returned to his room weren't his and that a mistake had occurred somewhere in the laundry service. So he walked around in Bucky's hoodie, of all things, for half a day until he noticed that hey, it wasn't his. He took it off, but instead of sending it back to be washed, he folded it with the rest of Bucky's bundle, sneaked in to said assassin's bedroom and swapped the clothes without anyone being the wiser.

It doesn't explain why he's still doing it, and now Nat's giving him that _look_ , arms crossed. Boy, Clint's in trouble.

Actually, he does have an explanation, but not one he cares to share.

"I ask again," Nat says, "what the hell are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Clint answers with a question, trying to buy time to escape.

"Looks like you're stealing Barnes' clothes."

The only way out is through the wall at this point since Nat's covering the door, the vent access is too small, and there's no other exit route. Note to self, don't get caught in another man's closet in the future. Clint slumps against the shelves, hugging the sweater to his chest. It reeks of detergent and Clint can't wait to make it go away.

"Clint."

It's one word, always one word, and it never fails to work.

"He likes it, I mean," Clint draws air through his nose, "the first time it was an accident but then he _smelled_ it and he _smiled_ , and _he likes it_ , Nat, I gotta do this, please don't tell him, please," he trails off.

He sounds a little too desperate, but ever since he's started this a couple of weeks ago, he's been frantically going through the worst scenarios in his head, about how he'll be found out, how it will end. And he doesn't want to. He wants to see more of that smile. Clint knows what's it about, but he doesn't really want to face it, doesn't want to deal with another broken heart. So if he ignores it long enough, it's going to be fine, right?

Natasha breathes in like she knows what Clint is trying to say. Well, she would, she always figures out everything, especially when it comes to Clint.

She moves toward him, then, close enough to touch, and places a hand on the sweater he's holding.

"Can I help?" she asks, and Clint trembles with relief.

Nat pulls at his arms until they're wrapped around her, letting Clint melt against her warmth.

"I love you so much," he breathes. She's his entire world, his support. So most times, when he tries to say thank you, these words come out.

"Love is for children," Nat returns, just as she always does.

Yeah, he knows she'll never love him like he loves her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't care. And he feels that every time he does something stupid, like crush on a brainwashed assassin.

Nat pulls away to look at him, gently pats his cheek. "I think you have enough love for both of us in this relationship, don't you?"

Clint wants to look away, deny, but he can't. When they got together, absolute honesty was their number one rule. So he nods.

Seconds trickle slowly as Nat searches his face. "You're afraid," she concludes, "that I'll back out if he returns your feelings."

She's surprised. Why, though? Clint would never...

He clutches tighter at her sides, in a way he knows might bruise later, but she just presses closer.

"Idiot," Nat smiles.

Her mouth is demanding when she claims his, and that's always saying more than any words or emotions could. Nat is his and he is Nat's and Clint's crush is also Nat's crush. Well, not in the romantic way, but they're a team. Also, they make the best aro-arrow pun ever. Clint got them t-shirts that one time.

Also, she's a lot better at sneaking in and stealing Bucky's clothes.

~

They are seated on the roof, cross legged on the concrete in the most secluded corner, staring at the paper that lies between them.

_'_ _Please. Come out. I need you.'_

"Do you think he meant both of us?" Clint asks.

"Only one way to find out," Nat replies.

They leave a note asking for trust. Asking Bucky to trust _them_ , making it clear it's not only one person, just in case. If Bucky can do that, then they'll see where this leads. If not, then a vacation away from the tower will be in order, a beach, night breeze, finding light flings for Nat with no strings attached except the ones they already share.

~

Bucky trusts them.

~

Clint is never an early riser, so when he opens his eyes, Bucky and Nat are seated against the headboard, talking softly. Nat's hand comes to caress the side of his face, fingertips scratching lightly behind his ear, and Clint shuffles closer, until his head is rested on Bucky's thigh. He sighs in satisfaction when Bucky's hand joins Nat's.

"Let me get this straight," Bucky says, returning to the conversation, "you don't love--"

"And Clint doesn't fuck."

Oh. _The talk._ Clint would like to go back to sleep, but he's wide awake now. Bucky is silent for a while, but Clint forces himself not to move. He doesn't really want to see disgust right now.

"What if I don't wanna fuck either?" Bucky asks and Clint stills.

Well, that's unexpected.

But Nat laughs. "Not a problem. We'll make it work."

Of course they will. Clint and her have made it work for years now, they know all their squicks and kinks and they have figured out how to function around them. They can do the same with Bucky.

"Ok," Bucky says, a breath of a word, quiet and low, but determined. It's an answer, he realizes, when, from the corner of his eye, he sees Nat lean in to kiss Bucky's lips.

Clint relaxes back against Bucky's leg. _Ok_. They're going to do this.

"We do have a problem, though," Nat says.

Bucky hums in reply and Clint holds off on a snicker.

"We don't cook, so chop-chop, frosty, make us breakfast."

The laughter that comes from Bucky is full and bright. "Demanding," he says, chuckles still spilling from his throat.

Clint grins, letting his eyes fall closed again. "You haven't seen anything yet," he mumbles, sliding into slumber again.

When he wakes up next, there's coffee and kisses and the tastiest scrambled eggs he's had in years.

And _their smiles_. Their smiles are _the best_.

~


	6. Bruce & Clint

Bruce has long forgone the pretense of trying to cover himself up after letting the Other guy out for a fight, so he walks to the quinjet spine straight and eyes ahead. It doesn't mean it's not awkward, strolling naked through cops and burning cars, he's even lost his pants this time. But he pushes ahead, looking forward to wrapping himself in his fluffy blanket.

His go bag is not in the quinjet, not under his seat where it should be, not anywhere. Bruce has looked. Twice.

Ugh.

He shivers and wipes at his face. At least he's not covered in concrete dust, making it out rather clean. So... maybe he can borrow something. He very gently pokes at the other bags under seats, but only Clint's seems to have something big and soft inside.

Aha. An oversized sweater. It's larger than Clint's size, but it feels so good on his skin, that Bruce shivers in delight. It warms him up in no time, as he curls up on a chair, knees to his chest. The black cloth of the thing looks barely worn, so it must be new, but it smells like a quiet summer night.

Pft. Here he is, waxing poetic about a sweater. Loneliness must be getting to him.

But, in the back of his mind, the Other guy rumbles, contentedness that extends further than the energy release in the aftermath of the battle, and Bruce feels his muscles lose all tension. This is unexpected, but he'll take it. He hasn't been this relaxed in quite a while.

Bruce listens to the team as they shuffle into the quinjet. Tony is having a heated debate with Natasha as they both take seats up front. Thor is not with them today, and Steve is too preoccupied talking to Sam about how they left Bucky alone at the tower. Bruce sighs through his nose. He hasn't been around Barnes all that much, too aware of how a wrong interaction might spark an undesired reaction from the Other guy. He needs to take it slow in getting to know others, but he's been making progress.

A soft gasp pulls Bruce out of his musings and he looks up to see Clint staring at him. His face quickly switches to a blank expression, but his eyes. Oh, dear, his eyes. They bore into Bruce with such an intensity, it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Bruce can't tell, though, what the look Clint gives him means. It could be anything, from absolute murder to utter disbelief, and a spike of fear runs through his spine when the Other guy pokes at the back of his mind. They're already in the air and turning here will be disastrous.

But no. His head settles with a feeling of pleased calmness.

Huh. The Other guy must really like Clint. Hulk sure as hell insists on snatching Hawkeye off of roofs to bring him down at the end of each mission.

"I forgot my bag," Bruce says in explanation. "Hope you don't mind," he picks at the hem of the sweater.

Clint's eyes skitter briefly toward Steve, but the captain is not paying them any mind, and Clint shrugs before sitting down and looking away.

Hm. Is this Steve's? But Bruce doesn't remember Steve ever wearing black. Who else is this big and... what. No, that's not possible. Although, Clint and Bucky would look good together. They'd complement each other in ways other people can't understand, especially when it comes to losing grip on your own actions. Bruce knows all about that, doesn't he. So he says nothing more.

~

They're not together. Bruce has been watching.

Clint is wearing Bucky's clothes, yes, but not around Bucky. And Bucky seems more content, nose buried in the hem of his hoodies and sweaters, after Clint's worn them. They also barely interact, there isn't any of that familiarity that comes with intimacy between them.

It baffles Bruce enough to make him incredibly curious.

So he starts watching Bucky, too. It doesn't take him long to realize Bucky doesn't know how is wearing his clothes, given the way he tries to surreptitiously sniff at everyone who might have access to his room. He even checks out Bruce.

For some reason, being privy to this thing makes him feel included in it. That must be the only explanation why he's sneaked into Bucky's closet and borrowed a t-shirt for himself.

Bruce is more wary of Bucky catching him, that's why he hasn't been paying attention to Clint. That, and he's been basking in this sense of belonging that being Clint's accomplice brings him. He's forgotten Clint's been unaware.

~

Bruce opens the door to his bedroom and nearly falls on his ass. Clint's there, sitting cross legged on the dresser. He looks calm, but the intense stare Clint uses on him makes Bruce want to curl in on himself.

So he's figured it out, and Bruce clutches the sweater he's just looted from Bucky's closet to his chest.

He feels open and raw.

The seconds pass slowly as they look at each other, the Other guy squirming. Bruce's heart rate picks up tiny notch by tiny notch, a steady and unyielding increase. He knows it's coming, the Other guy will come out, right here, in the tower, in the middle of New York, but he just can't move.

He's tethering on the edge, close enough to be swallowed in a sea of oblivion, when Clint shifts. He lets his legs fall down over the front of the dresser, while opening his arms wide.

And Bruce is there in the span of a heart beat.

He's welcome and forgiven and accepted and he wants to say thank you, but all that comes out is a growl. His fingers are tinted green where they clutch at Clint's back, his lips numb and his tongue heavy. Bruce is here and not here at the same time. He hasn't been this rooted in the middle of the transformation before. It hurts and it feels amazing at the same time, his entire body vibrating with it.

Clint chuckles, low and soft, the sound resonating through Bruce's skin. "Shh," Clint hums. "It's ok, I got you."

No, Bruce has Clint. Hulk has Clint.

And he tries to tell him as much, but all he manages is another growl that travels up his chest all the way to the tip of his tongue. It makes the contact between the points of his teeth and Clint's skin electrifying, where he's raking them across Clint's neck.

Clint laughs, just as gentle. "Ok, ok, big guy," he whispers, "you got me."

Like he knows.

He knows what Bruce needs, what the Other guy wants, and Bruce overflows with such delight, it makes him grin as he leans back to watch Clint.

"Birdie," he rasps.

Clint's eyes lighten up with a sparkle. "That's right," he says.

He's not afraid of Bruce, and that pumps adrenaline through his system, while blanketing the volatility it brings with something so satisfying, it keeps him half Bruce, half Hulk. With a rumble, he clutches at Clint tighter.

"I know, I know," Clint adds, "we're a team. You and me."

He goes almost boneless in Bruce's arms, and Hulk sighs with satisfaction. Birdie's the best. Strong despite being squishy, and letting Hulk play with him. Kitten's smell drifts to his nostrils and he sniffs the air. Kitten's a lot stronger, but sadder. Less when he smells like Birdie and Hulk grumbles.

"Kitten is team," he demands.

"Damn right he is," Birdie laughs, tickling pleasantly at Hulk's ears and he leans back, smirking smugly.

Puny Bruce not believing it. Hmpf! That will show him. Hulk is always right.

"Sad," he adds for good measure, because team must be protected.

"I know."

Great, Birdie is sad now, too, and Hulk huffs.

"We'll help him," Birdie continues and that perks Hulk up. "Let me talk to Bruce, yeah? Let the squishy humans deal with it first? Then we'll all go out and play."

Yes, perfect plan.

Bruce shudders with so much force, it makes his eyes water with a sudden sting. The Other guy has never retreated so fast before, and he's left there gasping air. But Clint rubs at his back and Bruce realizes he remembers the entire conversation. His clothes are intact, not even a stitch popped open. Maybe... maybe there's hope he might be able to communicate with the Other guy with something else than vague emotions in the future.

For now, though... Bruce turns his attention to a piece of paper Clint withdraws from his pocket and unfolds.

_'Please. Come out. I need you.'_

"Did he--" Bruce starts and Clint nods. "He doesn't know it's you," he continues. This confirms it.

This times, though Clint shakes his head. "He doesn't know it's us," he corrects. "We should go to him together."

The belonging he's been feeling returns tenfold. Can he hope? But there are issues, and although Clint doesn't seem to mind the Other guy, Bucky might. Besides, anything more than a cuddle and chaste kisses sends his heart rate into dangerous levels.

Wait, he's getting ahead of himself. Neither Clint, nor Bucky have even mentioned this kind of involvement, so where did it come from? But Bruce wants it, he realizes.

Argh, he's so fucked.

He's been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to register Clint's stance shifting, until he's looking at Bruce with the same intensity from before, neither cold, nor warm, but shattering the walls around Bruce.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he rasps, ignoring the thrum of displeasure at the back of his mind. "I..."

He chokes on the words, just as Clint's eyes pierce sharply all the way through Bruce.

A beat, and Clint pushes gently at Bruce's shoulders, but only far enough to start undoing the buttons of Bruce's shirt.

"Me, too," Clint says before Bruce has a chance to open his mouth. "Show me how far you can go without turning, and we'll work with that."

Bruce hasn't heard him right. But Clint's fingers brush the skin of his shoulders as he pushes the shirt off. Then, Clint's hoodie joins it on the floor. His tank top flies through the room, before he pries Bucky's sweater from Bruce's fingers.

The steel in Clint's stare is unwavering as he wraps his arms and legs around Bruce, as he lets himself be thrown on the bed, limbs loose and body compliant. And Bruce realizes, then, that this look is the look Clint has when he cares. When he loves.

His heart rate spikes and the Other guy growls through Bruce's throat, but he doesn't poke the surface more than that. The possessive streak's back, though, and Bruce lets himself touch every bit of exposed skin on Clint's body.

"Yeah," Clint smiles.

It's what makes Bruce catch Clint's lips within his. It's short and soft, but so fucking perfect. When he leans back, he grabs Clint's hands, places his palms on his own chest, and lets himself be touched for the first time in a very long while.

Clint is gentle and unhurried. It's a little surprising how quickly Bruce gets used to his warmth.

~

An hour later, they lie there naked, Clint on his back and Bruce leaning on an elbow. He runs his fingers over the planes of Clint's chest. Despite their unclothed state, the touches have not even skirted into anything sexual, his heart beat steady below danger levels.

Bruce is amazed.

"How are you not hard," he blurts, because of course he's going to ruin the moment.

Clint huffs with a small laugh, opens his eyes lazily. "I came like... three times before coming here," he says, making an aborted motion with his fist. "Coming here," he repeats, snorting at his own pun.

It pulls laughter out of Bruce as well.

"You were so sure this would happen," Bruce comments.

Clint grows serious all of a sudden. "Yes," he replies. "I've seen the way you look at me, the way you look at Bucky. You want us."

Bruce swallows against his dry throat. He does want, and he's been ignoring it ever since that time in the quinjet when he first wore Bucky's sweater.

"I want you and him, too," Clint continues.

Hearing it out loud loosens the tight knot in Bruce's chest and he exhales, follows it with a kiss to Clint's lips. "You think he wants us?" he asks, because the note had said Bucky needs them. Which isn't quite the same as wanting.

"I hope so," Clint returns. "How exactly, I guess we'll have to find out."

And that brings Bruce back to his problem.

"There won't be any chance of sex--" he starts, but Clint places his hand over Bruce's mouth, interrupting him.

"I know, don't worry about it."

Yeah, Clint knows, and is willing to forgo it, as evidence already shows. Well, maybe Bruce can do something for him in return for this utmost care Clint's been displaying. He kisses Clint's palm before he removes it.

"Best I can do are handjobs, if the Other guy's calm enough," he offers.

"Really?" Clint grins at him with so much brilliance, it makes Hulk growl in approval somewhere in the back of Bruce's mind.

"Yeah," he breathes, smiling back.

~

"Ready?" Clint asks, holding Bruce's fingers in one hand and a tranquillizer gun in the other.

Bruce inhales, exhales. "Ready," he rasps, before pushing open the door to Bucky's bedroom.

~

Hulk runs. The sand is hot beneath his soles, the sun is bright in the sky, and the land is clear of anything but rocks for miles and miles. Birdie flies in the metal, bigger bird next to him, and Kitten cackles ahead.

"That all you can do?" Kitten yells as he runs backwards, and Hulk growls.

Silly Kitten. Hulk likes the way he laughs, that's why he's been pacing himself. But soon, when Kitten starts tiring, Hulk will scoop him up in his hands, bring him to Birdie, and let Bruce cuddle them.

Yes, perfect plan.

~


	7. Tony & Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please check notes for trigger warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: depiction of panic attacks ahead, and mentions of self-destructive behaviors.

He's cold. He's so fucking cold and he's shivering and he can't stop it. Because this isn't something caused by a drop in external temperature, this is caused by the panic twisting his gut. Tony knows this, he knows it and he still can't stop it. His eyes burn until something hot and painful spills from them, but instead of being relieving, it adds to the pressure in his chest. His arms hurt as he shakes with overwhelming sensations... until he sees it.

It's a hoodie, black and thick and so warm around himself, that Tony is finally able to curl in a corner. Finally able to hear his heartbeat going down, still pounding in his ears, but slowly stuttering to manageable levels.

It's the best fucking thing that he's ever touched in a very long time and it aches with how good it feels. How safe.

~

It's difficult to part with Bucky's hoodie, but Tony forces himself to put it back in Bucky's room. Bucky's left it in the lab a few days before after he's let Tony check on his arm, and that's why it was there right when Tony's needed it the most.

He turns back eight times before he locks himself in his lab. It's not his hoodie, and he has no right to it. Bucky needs it more, Tony's been watching him. Bucky needs it a lot more than Tony, yeah. Tony's inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, he'll be fine.

~

He's not fine. He goes back for the hoodie three days later when he can't breathe, can't swallow the lump the fear on his throat, can't... can't... cant...

He comes back to reality in Bucky's closet, thankfully undiscovered.

~

Tony doesn't stop himself anymore, from sneaking off with Bucky's clothes whenever he feels the panic spreading its tendrils around him.

Bucky notices, Tony determines, but he doesn't know who is stealing his clothes. So Tony keeps doing it.

~

It's 4AM and Tony might have been awake for over fifty hours. He pulls at the fridge door, squints his eyes against the sudden light and... the sky opens. The void of space swallows him. The air is aflame, lit by the nuke as it goes off.

Tony burns, surrounded by the beauty of it all, but he's cold.

So fucking cold.

Until he sees it there... the black hoodie.

He struggles with getting it on, but it's just as warm as always.

Just as safe.

~

Tony stares at the hoodie stretched over his torso, rubs at his wet cheeks and then stares some more. This isn't Bucky's hoodie, it's too small to be his.

Outside, the sun starts rising over the skyline of the city, and Tony takes a deep breath.

Who else is wearing black around here... oh.

Natasha is standing in the doorway, and Tony has to blink fast, his eyes filling again. Because he can't... he can't explain it. Not right now, when he's raw and exposed.

But she says nothing, just nudges him this way and that until he finds himself in his bedroom and she's closing the door behind them.

Tony doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes, she's still there. And she prods, asks questions, relentlessly, following him around and breaking into the lab, even convincing JARVIS to side with her. Day after day she's there, watching him.

It should've been a cause of annoyance or anger or frustration, but... Natasha's presence is helping a lot more than he wants to admit.

"Here," Natasha says and hands over something that looks suspiciously like Bucky's hoodie.

It's Bucky's hoodie, Tony discovers. He's missed it, and he hugs his arms around himself after he puts it on.

"Idiot," comes next with a deep sigh before Natasha wraps him in a gentle embrace.

Yeah, he is. And he tells her how much. He tells her everything.

~

Like clockwork, Natasha forces Tony to lie down at midnight and doesn't let him leave the bed until seven in the morning. Most nights he can't sleep, but she keeps him there, and he's grateful.

It feels like he's healing.

And every time he catches Bucky after they return his clothes, Bucky looks brighter. He even smiles, sometimes, sniffing at the hem of his t-shirts that Tony's worn while snuggled against Natasha.

It feels like he's helping Bucky heal, too, and that keeps a spark of warmth in Tony's core.

That's why this note Bucky's left in his closet seems like the end of this precarious balance he's achieved. Natasha has found it on her latest run, then brought it to Tony.

"Will you..." he clears his throat. "Would you..."

Natasha doesn't move from where she's watching him, arms crossed as she leans into the dresser, face carefully blank.

His hands are shaking and his lip hurts where he's biting into it. But he can do this, he has to, so he inhales, tries again.

"Can we help him, please?"

"We," Natasha repeats.

Tony nods in confirmation, because he doesn't want to give her up, but he's also drawn to Bucky's warmth. So he closes his eyes, expecting to hear the door close behind her.

Instead, her fingers sink into his hair with a whispered "we."

"Of course, we, it's been we for a long time, not just me, we can, we can do it, we," he rambles, hoping she understands.

If he'd known her kiss would taste this right and this sweet, he'd have told her earlier, that he's in love with her. And Bucky. Better late than never, he thinks as he confesses, as quickly as he can, how he feels about them both.

She calls him an idiot again, she does that once every 48 hours on average, and that's when Tony realizes...

Oh.

His mouth isn't used to smiling anymore, but the sensation is familiar.

"Don't let it get to your head," Natasha tells him with an eye roll.

"Bucky, too?" he pleas, clutching at her sides.

"I could," she says, returning his smile.

He'll take it.

~

Bucky falls asleep between them, but Tony is too wired up to manage the same right now. On the other side of the bed, Natasha watches him for a while, but then her eyelids fall closed as well, her breathing slow and steady.

And Tony could go, right now, run around the Tower, work in his lab, check on that experiment in the fridge, finish that theorem proof. But that would mean being cold and alone.

That would mean hurting himself, he gets it now.

So he stays, waits for them.

Smiles.

~


	8. Steve & Tony

It's been two days since Bucky's said a word, to anyone, Steve included, and Steve rubs his own arms at the chill that washes over him every time he thinks about the last seventy years. He thought he was unlucky, to be removed from his world and thrust into this one, but between him and Bucky...

Steve takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He's promised himself he won't steal any more of Bucky's clothes, but when this sort of cold settles into his core, he can't help it. Wearing one of Bucky's hoodies feels like having Bucky warm him up. It reminds him about when they were kids and Bucky's had that growth spurt. Bucky's nana had knit him this huge thick sweater that Bucky'd always make Steve wear when the air was biting with the frost of winter. Steve used to swim in that thing. Now, Bucky's hoodie fits him, but it's still warm with the memory of his friend.

So Steve keeps going back, taking clothes out of Bucky's closet to wear, wishing he'd have that closeness again.

~

It's been two days since Tony's ran out of clean t-shirts. So when he rides the service elevator up from the lab and incidentally runs into one of the staffers carrying a laundry load back to the living quarters, Tony very gently and very subtly asks JARVIS to distract the guy long enough for Tony to make off with one of the black t-shirts in the pile.

It's fortunate that someone else in the Tower wears black now beside Tony. And no, Natasha doesn't count because she caught him once in one of her tank tops and Tony will not repeat the rest of the conversation, thank you very much.

Then again, he loses the t-shirt when he takes it off in the kitchen upstairs. He can't remember for what purpose exactly he did it, but it's highly likely it was about getting access to the arc reactor.

Well, his t-shirts haven't washed themselves yet, so Tony goes directly to the source, sneaks into Bucky's bedroom. Ah, yes. There's a hoodie on the bed, already worn, but not smelly, so Tony deems it good enough.

Actually, its fragrance is quite calming. Like a quiet conversation over hot chocolate on a rainy day.

Tony falls asleep in it and wakes up more rested than ever.

He returns the hoodie, carefully folded, because that sense of warm belonging is surely something Bucky needs right now, after everything he's been through, and Tony can't be that selfish as to hog it to himself. He'll go back for it when he needs it again.

~

Steve rubs water out of his hair while he walks into the kitchen, mind fuzzy from the exhaustion of the workout and the long shower he's taken after.

Ack! He must have left one of Bucky's t-shirts in here, because Bucky's never this careless with his clothes. Steve can hear Tony and Bruce talking through the other door, but they don't seem to be approaching. So he thanks his luck today and snatches the t-shirt, returns it to Bucky's room.

For some reason, and Steve can't quite figure out how, he's been misplacing Bucky's clothes, especially that hoodie that never fails to keep him warm. Sometimes he spends hours searching for it everywhere until he finds it back in Bucky's closet.

And Bucky... he's been a little different lately. It feels like was standing under a thick cloudy rain, but now the sun is starting to shine on his face. It makes Steve ache, because the way Bucky's face relaxes when he sinks into an armchair with a book, wrapped up in one of his hoodies after Steve's worn them, it reminds him of the old days, when war wasn't upon them and Steve could be close to him.

It aches because Steve would give anything to have Bucky at peace with himself, but there's nothing more he can do.

~

Very little things can take Tony by surprise in general, but this one... this is something else. It's a note tucked between the t-shirts and the hoodies, beckoning the clothes thief to come out.

He ends up staring at it for too long, standing in Bucky's closet.

So when JARVIS beeps softly with a warning that someone's approaching, Tony hurries off, mind still lingering over the words.

By the time he reaches the lab he's sure, with absolute certainty, that he'll give Bucky anything he wants if it means keeping Tony warm and safe. He's been wondering for quite a while, what it would be like to sleep in Bucky's embrace instead of his clothes, but he's always pushed it aside. Now he doesn't have to, and he lets his mind dream while he takes a shower, gathers his nerves.

~

_'Please. Come out. I need you.'_

Maybe there is something Steve can do, after all.

He's found the note in Bucky's closet and he sits on the edge of Bucky's bed, twirling it between his fingers. He'd lie if he said he weren't beyond happy, but he's also nervous about it.

He sure hopes that he's what Bucky needs.

Footsteps fall into the hallway, and Steve takes a deep breath as the door opens...

"I need you, too," Steve says.

And Tony enters the room.

It takes a couple of seconds for Steve to register it's Tony, because Tony's wearing one of Bucky's hoodies, the soft one with gray lining on the inside.

~

"I need you, too," comes from Bucky's bed.

Tony's heart flips pleasantly in his chest before it dawns on him that the words carry over in Steve's voice and he freezes there, breath stuck in his chest.

"What are you doing?" Steve asks.

"Where's Bucky?" Tony returns, because this isn't happening.

He thought... oh. Oh, the note must have been for Steve.

But Steve looks crestfallen, eyes shifting from Tony to the piece of paper in his hand. "This was for you," Steve says, and Tony isn't imagining the way his voice wavers.

Wait, hold up. Steve is wearing Bucky's black hoodie, the one that's safe and so warm that it brings Tony to tears sometimes when nobody can see him.

They've both been...

Tony runs over possible scenarios and their outcomes, while Steve runs a hand over his face. He looks defeated, and Tony can't have that. He might have been competing for dad's attention against Steve's ghost when he was a kid, and he might still hold a tiny bit of grudge for that, but that doesn't mean it was Steve's fault. Or that Steve doesn't deserve to be happy, especially after being so forcefully removed from his own life.

There's only one solution that can ensure a positive resolution for all of them.

So Tony strides over, grabs Steve's face and kisses him.

On the mouth, with lips and teeth and maybe a little bit of tongue, just to be on the safe side in case the message isn't clear.

When he straightens back up, Steve is looking at him eyes wide.

"What--"

"You're the strategist, Capsicle," Tony interrupts, "tell me this isn't the best solution."

Steve doesn't tell him that. Instead, he rises to his feet and fuck. The way he kisses... Tony's knees go weak.

~

It takes a few days of negotiations between him and Tony, but Steve is incredibly satisfied with how they decide to handle this in the long run. When Tony kissed him that first time, he found himself wanting more of it. Wanting it with Bucky, too, and he's been running his mind around how an arrangement like this would work.

But since the moment they left Bucky's bedroom almost two weeks ago, holding onto each other, Tony hasn't stopped researching this. The internet has proved itself enlightening once again, and reading about other people's experiences has helped tremendously.

Steve is sure they can make it work, if they're careful and open.

Yet he can't stop his heart from pounding against his ribs while he waits for Tony outside of Bucky's door. And when Tony approaches even more nervous than Steve, he realizes Bucky must be feeling just the same.

It's so warming, to share this anticipation, that it brings a smile to his lips. Tony steals it with a quick peck and rubs Steve's cold fingers between his palms, before opening the door.

~

Bucky blinks against the early morning light. There are two heads on his chest. Steve's is lower, almost on his abdomen, while Tony's is resting against his shoulder. For half a second, he feels like an old creep when he remembers Tony is Howard's boy, but then again Tony's older then him and Steve, technically. Bucky holds off the laugh at the few puns that pop into his head at the thought, as he tries not to wake them.

From all the people in the tower, these two are the least that he's expected.

But last night, he's felt them kiss above him, and it's been gentle and slow and fulfilling to hear.

It's going to be incredible to watch them.

He's sure.

~


	9. Thor & Clint

Throughout all his years in Asgard and Midgard and other worlds, Thor has learned one important lesson. Everything is ephemeral. Not even people last. But what carries over from one part of life to the next are the connections, their remembrance, the way they make one grow. If Thor were wine, his friendships and ties would be barrels, nurturing him, helping him evolve, mature, keeping him safe.

So even with the bittersweet feeling his goodbye to Jane has laid over him, he still has people to turn toward, people that need each other, and he hopes that, by extension, they'll need him as well. The Avengers are a team, even though they don't know it yet. The arrival of the Winter Warrior has caused ripples in their interactions, the man himself battered and run down, but not entirely broken. Thor has seen it before. So, watching them all skirting around the warrior, around Bucky, a little more than lost, tells Thor that he is indeed of use, that he can help mend this fierce group. He's going to start small, though, with Bucky and Clint.

~

"You want me to what?" Clint asks, eyebrows shooting up his forehead.

Thor rolls on his heels, extending the hoodie he's holding further into Clint's space. "Wear it."

With a scratch to his head, Clint frowns. "It's not mine," he says. "And I don't think Bucky's gonna appreciate me running around in his best hoodie. He loves that thing."

Clint's noticed. Clint notices most things, although he choses to ignore the vast majority of what people do. But Bucky having gone through all that brainwashing thing, it's made Clint a lot more sympathetic and a lot more attuned to the former Winter Soldier. So he's noticed how Bucky seems to melt into the black hoodie, an oversized thing that looks so soft and warm, that Clint's jealous of it sometimes. Especially during those nights he wakes up cold and shivering.

And now Thor, the vile thief, has taken it from Bucky. Clint squints his eyes.

"Brother Hawk," Thor says, shoulders slumping as he lets his arm fall to his side, "I'd do it myself, but I think you'd be best suited for this, considering what my brother did to you."

"What..." Clint says, but it comes out more of a choked sound than an actual word, scratching the back of his suddenly dry throat.

Thor's face is as earnest as ever, though, as he nods slowly. "Your understanding is going to do him great service."

"How?" Clint retorts. Thor does things sometimes that for them mere mortals seem a little out of the ordinary, although when Thor explains later on, it all makes sense. This, however, is pushing the limits of absurdity.

For a second, Thor frowns at Clint in confusion, but then his face brightens. "Midgard doesn't have such a custom anymore!" he exclaims.

Clint crosses his arms.

"On Asgard," Thor continues, a little more animated, "when a warrior brother or sister comes back damaged from battle, it's our duty to help them heal. Wearing their clothes," Thor gestures with his free hand, "it's telling them they're home. They're loved and accepted."

He thrusts the hoodie at Clint, and this time Clint takes it automatically.

"See," Thor says, voice a lot quieter and gentler, before he brushes his thumb over Clint's cheek, "you understand."

It comes away wet, and Clint hasn't even felt tears well up in his eyes.

But Thor's words... Clint's chest hurts with sudden longing, thanking whatever forces drive the universe, that he's had Nat to lean on when he'd needed it right after Loki's departure. Bucky sure needs someone to help, and Clint would be the first to defend Steve's contributions to getting Bucky back, because Cap loves his friend more than anything. But Steve's also too close and is suffering himself all too much for Bucky, and it's visible in their daily interactions. Taking a little weight off of Steve's shoulders would benefit them both.

Thor leaves him without another word.

And Clint hurries to wrap himself in that hoodie.

~

Thor watches. He's highly aware that most think his head to be filled with air sometimes, but he's not the heir of a king for nothing. His mother, most of all, has taught him the patience of observing those around him. That one stuck, even though his father never seemed to have succeeded in teaching Thor the patience of thought in general.

Yes, that's a lesson he has since learned, at great cost. Thor sighs, rubbing his forehead, before pushing thoughts of his past troubles from his mind. He returns his focus on Bucky, who is currently inhaling Clint's scent off of his sweater. It's a red one, dark and velvety, almost the color of blood.

Ever since he's convinced Clint to abide by asgardian customs in helping Bucky, the archer has been dutifully wearing at least one item every day. However, he does so unnoticed, which, on the one hand, is entirely too endearing. On the other hand, it defeats the purpose a little, because this caretaking must travel both ways in order to work as it should.

Bucky closes his eyes where he's curled up in the other armchair, knees drawn to his chest while the rest of the team is discussing the movie that's playing on the far wall. Thor watches him as Bucky's fingers wrap, very subtly, around his own forearm, fingernails hooking into the material there, as if searching for something to embrace.

Thor shivers, and he'd go to Bucky in a heartbeat. Alas, it's not his place. Not really, Bucky isn't his brother in arms, even if he is Steve's.

From the back of his mind his inner voice mocks him that, by that logic, Clint isn't a brother to Bucky either, yet Thor's passed the mantle of helping to the archer. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. So what if the Avengers aren't as close knit as he used to be with the Warriors Four and Lady Sif? So what if Thor's just a little bit lonely? Such are the men and women of Midgard, less inclined to affection. He'll be fine.

~

Thor doesn't look fine. Bucky seems better, but Thor seems worse with each passing day, Clint's been paying attention. It feels like Thor's been losing that shine that he always seems to carry around. Clint has heard the stories of what Loki concocted and how tragically his plans ended, and he imagines it must be pretty shitty to be in Thor's shoes right now. Clint knows all too well how it is when everything comes crashing.

So he does the exact same thing Thor had taught him.

Thor's clothes are even larger than Bucky's and Clint snorts at himself when he pulls a shirt on, standing in the middle of Thor's room. Thor's bed is also quite inviting, sheets and blankets rumpled in a heap, more of a nest that an actual bed. The huge yawn that overtakes Clint reminds him that he's skipped all sleep the night before. It's been a bad one, and Clint almost gives in to the urge to curl up in the middle of the mattress.

"Clint," Thor's voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Clint turns to see Thor's surprised face.

"Uh... I..."

"Thank you," Thor says, his face breaking into a smile.

It's such a warm thing, that Clint's heart flops into his chest with a pang. It's unexpected and it scares him, so Clint rushes off, drawing the shirt tighter around himself.

A few hours and a shooting session later, Clint's perched up against the headboard of his bed, the darkness of the night thick around him. He can't make it stop, can't push that smile out of his head. He's so screwed, because this is Thor, a god, the future king of an entire planet, and Clint's just a circus kid with a bow.

That's when the door opens slowly, then closes, and Clint buries his face in his knees. The mattress dips next to him, but then everything goes back to being utterly still.

It's long minutes before Clint dares look. Thor's curled up next to him, eyes closed and body relaxed. He seems asleep, and Clint's treacherous fingers sink of their own accord in the long strands of hair splayed out on the pillow. Clint doesn't expect the arm that snakes around Clint, pulling him down, slotting his body against Thor's. Doesn't expect his nose to be pressed against that chest and for it to smell like Bucky's favorite hoodie. But it feels so right, that any trace of doubt flees from his mind.

"Wish Bucky were here," Clint whispers and only after the words leave his mouth does he realize how true they really are.

Thor hums, his fingers pressing into the muscles of Clint's back, right over his spine. "Perhaps we can ask," Thor says.

And Clint doesn't remember what he meant to reply, because his eyes close, his head's clear for a change, and he's finally asleep.

~

They don't get to ask, because time flies by between two Avengers calls and Thor finding more and more inventive ways of sneaking into Bucky's closet unnoticed. He and the Hawk have a wager going on, with the prize of pancakes. It keeps Clint smiling, so Thor keeps doing it.

And then he finds a note between Bucky's sweaters that says  _'_ _Please. Come out. I need you.'_

"Do you think he knows it's two of us?" Clint asks.

He's standing in front of where Thor's sat on the edge of his own bed, and all he wants is to grip at Clint, pull him close, but Clint's too absorbed in Bucky. He should be, they'd be good together.

"We need to make sure he knows it's two."

Wait, what is Clint saying?

"Thor?"

Thor blinks, and his chest tightens with a sweet ache that travels up his throat to morph his mouth into a grin that's making his own cheeks hurt.

He lets his arm extend and his fingers clutch at Clint's hip while he pulls Clint closer. "Can I..." he starts, unsure how to ask, but it seems Clint knows what he wants, because he bends down, taking Thor's lips between his own.

~

Bucky blinks, eyes focusing slowly in the brightness of the morning sunlight. The metal of his arm glints, and Bucky follows it downwards to the tips of his fingers, where his left hand is wrapped around Clint's hip. Clint is sleeping against him, back to Bucky, fitting so perfectly that it makes Bucky shiver. The warmth that's pressed against his own back shifts slowly, and Bucky takes a deep breath, ready to turn.

That's when he sees them, finger shaped bruises on Clint's skin, where his t-shirt is pushed up and his sweatpants are riding low. He snatches the metal away, inhale stuck in his throat.

But then a large hand envelops his.

"I am at fault for that," comes is a hush from behind Bucky.

The hand moves to Bucky's hip, fingers pressing into the muscle there with quite a lot of force, enough for Bucky's breath to stutter.

"I did the same to you," the voice whispers while the weight behind Bucky shifts, golden hair falling onto the side of Bucky's face, "but you heal much faster."

Bucky turns his head.

Thor.

A god, in his bed.

It makes him laugh, full and so satisfying that it shakes his entire body.

Clint twists then, blinking at them both, eyebrows high on his forehead. "Aw," he says, "you're laughing."

His face fills with wonder, irises sparkling in tandem with the shine of Thor's locks. Bucky can't decide who to kiss first, but he finds a mouth, then the other, watches them share a peck as well.

Thor offers breakfast, Clint offers coffee, and Bucky offers himself.

Yeah, this whole alive thing. It's glorious.

~


	10. Pietro & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! o/  
> Thank you for reading. The language bits have been checked by experts, promise. :) Many thanks to Catnip for the headcanons. :3  
> Enjoy! o/

Pietro alternates between deep sighs and heated glares. He shifts his position on the sofa, the very comfortable sofa, then pokes it with a finger repeatedly. Sharp and fast.

"Lampa ta de canapea..." he mumbles, a swear but not really, because the AI, Friday, is quite adamant on proper language. _[Lamp you, couch...]_

He looks up at the walls warily before letting out a breath.

Aaaand it's back to glaring, this time at the soft cushions around him. He can't believe it! After all these years of hating Stark, Wanda, of all people, had insisted he stays at the stupid Tower to recuperate!

Wanda!

Pietro is betrayed. Twice over, because, one, Wanda is supposed to be on his side, and two, everything is so fucking amazing and comfortable and... Pietro grumbles, low in his chest.

And he's mostly alone. With Friday, who chastises him every time he tries to use his speed, because he still has a lot of healing to do. Dr. Cho's Cradle could only do so much, after Pietro went and got himself riddled with bullets. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, don't get him wrong, but healing sucks. It's sooooo boooooring...

Everyone is away, training at the new fancy facility. Wanda is an Avenger now and Pietro's chest swells with pride before he remembers how sis managed to convince him that staying at the Tower was the safest for Pietro.

Something clinks in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Well, Pietro is not actually alone-alone, but Bucky never talks. Rarely comes around to where Pietro is. The bastard is sneaky, too, because whenever Pietro tries to catch him to say hi, he's gone before Pietro can get there. Unless he uses his speed, but Friday is worse than Wanda when it comes to lecturing him.

Today is no different. By the time Pietro makes it to the kitchen, there is only the smell of tea left behind. That, and a jumper, black one, thrown over the back of a chair. Looks so soft. And nice. And worn. All the clothes Pepper gave him are a little too new, sometimes too scratchy. He'd never thought he wouldn't want new clothes, but right now he misses that sweater he and Wanda used to share when they were little. It looked a lot like the jumper, black and large and warm.

Pietro has it wrapped around himself before he realizes what he's doing, is back on the sofa under his blankets in no time.

~

"Wakey wakey," drifts to Pietro, followed by a poke to his cheek and he bats it away. "Come on, kid, I brought you donuts."

Ah, donuts! That springs him up fast enough to make him wince and Clint wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Clint.

Clint is better than donuts, and Pietro leans into him.

But the donuts are delicious, the coffee is creamy, so he stuffs his face while Clint tells him what's been happening during training for the past two days.

"What are you wearing?" Clint asks after the box is empty and Pietro lies back patting his belly.

"Uh..."

"That's Bucky's," Clint continues, an eyebrow raised.

Pietro hugs his arms around himself, then curls up, pushing his nose into the material. He's expecting another lecture, but Clint's hand is suddenly in his hair. Pietro's chest aches.

"Steve told me he's not doing very well," Clint whispers. "Did you talk to him at all?"

Pietro shakes his head. Clint sighs.

"Don't take his comfort clothes, kid, you know what he's been through."

Oh, Pietro knows. Pietro's been used by HYDRA, too, and even though it was of his own doing, it doesn't mean he can't understand what Bucky's experienced. HYDRA was gruesome in its experiments and doing things to Pietro and Wanda, things that... he shudders, pushing away the still lingering memories.

Clint looks at him with that shade in his eyes that says he grasps, as well, what Bucky must think. But while Pietro knows of pain, Clint knows of being erased from himself. Between the two of them, their issues combined must be closest to what Barnes has going on. No wonder he doesn't wanna talk to anyone.

"Sorry," Pietro mumbles, raising to slip the jumper off.

Clint takes it back to Bucky later, before he leaves. It will be another couple of days until he returns.

Pietro glares at the wall. Then at the sofa.

"Friday, citește-mi o poveste," he calls. _[Friday, read me a story.]_

At least the AI has a nice voice as she complies. He rubs at his chest while he sniffles into the pillow. Damn old man and his donuts and his caring and... and... ugh. Pietro can't wait for him to come back.

~

It turns into a bet the moment Pietro says "Keep up, old man!"

For the past two weeks Clint has been methodically removing Bucky's clothing from Pietro's grasp and returning them to the former assassin. And then Pietro has found out that Clint's been sneaking the pieces back, Bucky none the wiser.

Now they have a running bet to see who can borrow more of Bucky's clothes. There are rules. Get an item, wear it for at least six hours, make sure not to damage or stain or dirty the item, then return it. Pietro is at twelve while Clint's at eleven.

Twelve now, as Clint sits with a grin next to Pietro on the sofa, wearing the same jumper that started all of this.

Pietro's heart skips a beat and he swallows. Clint looks really good in that one.

~

Fuck his heart and everything in it!

Pietro draws air through his nose, trying to calm down his rapid pulse. It's one of those rare days when Bucky hangs around, when everyone's back from training for the weekend. Bucky's curled up on the sofa next to Pietro, the hem of his hoodie over the tip of his nose, inhaling with a satisfied sound that's too low for the others to hear. It's the hoodie that Pietro has just returned to him, the one Clint had worn for half a day and Pietro stole right after Clint brought it back to Bucky's closet because Pietro wanted to keep Clint's warmth around himself for longer.

Now it smells like Clint and Pietro combined and Bucky's fucking inhaling it.

Wanda's eyes snap at him from across the room. Oh-oh. She knows.

"Serios?" she mouths at him. "Amândoi?" _[Really? Both of them?]_

Pietro shrugs and hugs the blanket closer. "Of, inimă," he mutters. _[Aw, heart.]_

Next to him, Bucky snorts and Pietro raises an eyebrow. But across the room, Steve is demonstrating that he can stand on his toes just like Natasha can, which is very funny. The big soldier man can't do it. So Bucky definitely laughed at that. Not at Pietro.

~

It's been niggling at him. How many languages can Bucky actually speak? So Pietro decides to find out. It's fortunate that Bucky's around when Clint comes to visit another week later.

He's got enough donuts for the three of them and they chat quietly and sporadically while enjoying the sweets.

"De fiecare dată când pleci, mi-e și mai dor de tine," Pietro tells the room at large. _[I miss you more every time you leave.]_

Clint groans. "English, kid. En-glish." It's always funny how Clint reacts when he doesn't understand what Pietro's saying.

Pietro snickers, to cover the way his heart flutters against his ribs, because Bucky is looking at them like he's missing someone, too. Perhaps Steve, and it stifles all of Pietro's hopes.

~

"Are you sure he left this for one of us?" Pietro asks, staring at the piece of paper sitting on the sofa cushion between them.

Bucky's left a note in his closet, asking them to reveal themselves, because he needs them. It fills Pietro with so much hope, that his hands can't stop shaking.

"Yes," Clint says again.

His eyes are warm when Pietro looks at him, just like the small smile on his lips, but his gaze is a little pained. It flips Pietro's stomach. "It's for you," he repeats.

Clint shakes his head. They've been at this for an hour already. Why won't Clint understand, Bucky wants him, not Pietro, who's just a kid from Sokovia. Instead, Clint's a talented assassin, just like Bucky. An Avenger. Pietro's just fast.

With a sigh, he turns his eyes to where he's picking at the nail of his thumb.

"Îs doar un plod," he starts, but can't stop, because he can't take it anymore, "n-o să fiu niciodată... pentru... adică, voi doi. Vă iubesc pe amândoi." _['m just a kid, I'll never be... for... I mean, you two. I love you both.]_

"You what?!" Clint almost shouts and Pietro's eyes snap up.

On the TV screen across the room, Friday has written, in large letters, the translation of what he's just said. Clint sits there, rigid and gaping at it, and Pietro starts to scoot off, planing an escape route.

But suddenly there are arms around him, warm and gentle, followed by Clint's face buried against his neck. The seconds trickle, too slow, too painful, but Clint never lets go, not until Pietro can feel his muscles relax, not until he isn't vibrating with the need to run anymore.

"I love you, too, kid," Clint says, leaning back, still holding onto Pietro's hand. "But let's be adults here for a while."

With a swallow, Pietro nods. He will joke and be a shit and tease Clint, but this is too important. Life has taught him that it's fine to be a child as long as the serious bits are considered with care.

"I'm almost forty," Clint continues, "you're barely twenty, and Bucky might be a century old, but he's only what, twenty three? You two have better chances together."

Pietro has to snap his jaw shut when it slides open with each of Clint's words. "You're thirty five, I'm twenty three and Barnes is ninety nine. Well, twenty nine. But he's even older than you, old man."

Clint opens his mouth, Pietro glares. After a beat, Clint slumps and brings Pietro's hand up to kiss his knuckles. It gives Pietro butterflies.

"Why me?" Clint finally asks, the words low and whispered.

Pietro doesn't even need to think about the answer.

"Because you're you. And you treat me like a real person, not a damaged child."

It earns him a smile, one that brightens Clint's face and makes Pietro's cheeks heat.

"Yes, yes," Pietro continues, scratches at the back of his head with his free hand, "you call me kid, but you know what I mean. They did that thing at the orphanage."

"Yeah, I know," Clint nods, squeezing Pietro's fingers. And that's another way how they understand each other. "Why Bucky?"

Pietro takes a deep breath. "He's alone. Rogers helps, but he doesn't get it, y'know?" he wiggles his fingers and Clint nods. "Then I got you and Wanda and... dunno," he shrugs. "It just happened."

Clint's face is unreadable as he watches Pietro, and Pietro shifts his gaze away. This is it, this is when Clint will either stay or leave and Pietro's heart gives a painful flop in his chest as silence stretches.

"How about we both go to him?"

That. That is the most wonderful thing Pietro's heard. He can't stop the hope and the smile that takes over his face as he lifts his head.

"Really?" he asks, voice shaky, but he doesn't care.

"Yeah," Clint returns, his free hand coming to wrap around the back of Pietro's neck. "Bucky's an interesting guy, doesn't take much to care for him."

"Yes!" he grins, so wide, that every cell in his body vibrates with it.

Clint's lips are chapped, then he's demanding Pietro slows down for a proper kiss, and Pietro flashes around the room, stealing pecks from him, "țin-te bine, moșule," until Friday threatens to call medical on his ass. _[Keep up, old man.]_

That's what she said! Ass! Phah!

~

Pietro is warm, even though there is a metal arm around him.

"You know you mumble in your sleep, right?" Bucky's voice travels through his chest, resonating to where Pietro's resting his cheek.

"Ung," Pietro returns.

"Și că înțeleg tot ce zici?" _[And that I understand everything you're saying?]_

"Uhhh..." he groans, burying his nose against Bucky's t-shirt.

"Aw! Not you, too," Clint's voice comes from Bucky's other side before his head pops up.

Pietro snickers. Bucky laughs, then kisses Clint on the mouth.

Oh, that's beautiful.

Life's beautiful.

~


	11. Nick & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwahah. Blame [sanders](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sanders/pseuds/sanders) for this. Awman.

Nick surveys the kitchen warily before carefully making his way in and starting a pot of coffee. On the stove, just as he likes it, not that crap that comes dribbling out of the machine. Besides, Barton keeps drinking directly from the glass carafe, and Nick just won't have it. He'll only share spit if he's locking lips with someone.

With a sigh, he scratches at the top of his head. Well, he _did_ do this to himself. Put himself in this position. More out of a disturbing sense of self punishment. Really, he must be some kind of masochist. But after discovering that HYDRA was hiding inside of SHIELD _for years..._ Nick counts himself lucky that Rogers, Barton, and Romanov stumbled onto the Winter Soldier program when they did. They'd gotten poor Barnes out, gotten proof incriminating Pierce, gotten everything while Nick had been twiddling his thumbs about how to make the world a safer place. _Thank hell_ he hadn't started work on Project Insight. Those weapons falling into the hands of HYDRA would have been disastrous.

Now, merely six months after the Chitauri invasion in New York, with a recovering SHIELD, Nick let Hill and Coulson convince him to take time off. _It will be fun, sir,_ Hill said. _You deserve some time off, sir,_ she said. _Barnes needs to settle in,_ she said.

Then.

 _Then_ she went ahead and sent _Barton_ here out in the middle of nowhere with him. Because _of course_ Barton broke his arm in such a way that needs him to actually sit put and heal.

 _He's the best shot, sir,_ Phil had said, ten years back when he'd recruited Barton. _He'll grow on you, sir,_ he had said.

Goddammit to _hell_ and back.

At least his cabin is still in one piece, and he smiles at it as he pats the wood paneling on the wall.

At least Rogers has already come and gone from his weekly visit. That boy, supersoldier or not, needs to stop moping about his friend. Barnes is alive and he'll come out of his funk when he's ready. No other way around it. Sometimes a man's gotta be left alone to mourn his brain in peace. Which reminds him. Barton's not looking so well either. He insists he's over Loki's trickery, but Nick's seen that haunted gaze a couple of times already.

With another sigh, he pours his fresh heavenly coffee into a mug and takes a slow sip.

Goddamn idiots.

If Nick could grow hair, it would be white already. And he's not that old, merely forty eight. Hid dad's gotten to one hundred before he started showing his age. Nick's still in his twenties by that count.

Well, that's enhancement to ya.

He shrugs, then slides the strap of his eye patch a notch before it starts itching.

"Is there any more of that?" comes from behind and Nick barely manages not to startle himself into pouring all of his coffee on his front.

"Barton," he grits, "I'll make you wear a bell."

"Sorry, sir," comes back, a little too subdued than Barton's usual self and Nick turns to look at him.

Barton's staring at his bare toes, his good hand scratching at the back of his neck while his other is settled in a sling, but under a very large, very thick sweater... that's definitely not his. Nick squints his eye.

"Barton," he starts, "what the hell are you wearing."

It's then that Barton blinks fast at the sweater. When he looks up, his cheeks are pink.

"Well, you know," Barton grins that grin he does when he's caught pulling a prank, "helping Bucky out."

Nick hums, but it turns out more like a growl than anything. And that spurs Barton into action, because he loses the lost air, instead displaying that cocky smirk of his, the one he puts on when he's trying to get a rise out of Nick.

"You know," Barton repeats as he leans his hip into the counter, "giving him a hand," and he makes a fist, shifts it back and forth a couple of times.

There's definitely something going on with him, and Nick sighs before he takes another sip.

"How's that working out for you?" he asks, calling Barton's bluff.

But instead of a cheesy comeback, Clint shrugs, looking away. Barton. His name is goddamn Barton, not Clint. No. Bad, Nicholas.

A sound in the hallway draws his attention, and Nick waves at Barnes in a silent good morning. When he turns around, Barton's gone.

Hm.

~

Ok, there's something terribly wrong with him if he's sitting on the floor with Clint in his arms.

How did Nick get here anyway?

Oh, right. He heard Clint choke while having a nightmare. An incoming punch to the jaw and a frantic scramble later, he finally managed to get Clint to wake up only to have him collapse in Nick's arms, quiet sobs wracking his frame.

It's a shame.

Clint is so talented... Nick would never wish it on anyone, what he's been through.

Yet now he is in a cabin with not one, but two brainwashed assassins.

He pulls Clint closer, rubs his arms through the tremors.

"Sorry, sir," Clint rasps between gasps.

"It's fine," Nick says. "Just let it out. You know, least you could do is call me by my name after socking me in the face."

Clint's head snaps up at that, but he hits Nick in the chin with the motion, which makes Nick smack his head onto the wall behind him with a crack.

"Fuck, sorry," Clint says, his unhurt hand coming up to press fingers on the back of Nick's neck.

"I'll live," he returns around the laughter that bubbles out of his chest.

That seems to appease Clint somewhat, because he relaxes a bit, a small chuckle slipping from between his lips as well before he leans back with his cheek against Nick's shoulder.

"Thanks, Nick," is the last thing Nick hears before he slides into slumber.

~

If sleeping on the floor with a lap full of assassin is the best he's slept in years, who's to know.

Nick will surely not tell anyone. Not by his own volition, anyway.

He takes a deep breath, waits for it. The air shifts slightly and yep. _There_ it is.

"Morning, sir," comes from behind in Clint's sleepy voice.

Clint? When did Barton become Clint. _Agh!_

~

"And again, I dare ask. What the hell are you wearing?"

Clint shrugs, a small smile on his face, one devoid of fake cockiness. "Bucky seems to like his clothes not smelling of detergent."

"You barely spend any time with him," Nick counters. "How would you kn--"

He groans when Clint points with a finger upward at the wooden beams crisscrossing the upper part of the cabin, right under the roof. Nick should've known that's where Clint would spend most of his time.

"You should try it," Clint adds, smile widening until he's showing teeth.

It will be a snowing day in hell before Nick joins into this madness.

~

The devil must be shivering and cursing a river. Nick glares at himself, at the black hoodie that he's been roped into wearing.

Well, it's very comfortable. And warm. And Bucky seems to like how it smells after Nick returns it.

Goddammit.

Leather. He needs leather. _Asap._

~

Rogers, Romanov, Hill, Coulson, even Stark come around to visit at one point or another. And some guy named Wilson who Nick runs a background check on as soon as he can get his paws on a tablet. Hill glares at him until he hands it back to her. But Rogers made a friend, and ain't that precious. While Nick's been stuck here with his two idiots.

At least nobody's figured out the clothes sharing thing. Bucky sure hasn't, because he sniffs at everyone. Hah.

Wait a minute. _His_ idiots? His?!

Nick is _so done._

With everything.

He's too old for this.

Nick's been staring at the ceiling poking viciously at his chest, willing the feelings to go away when the door to his bedroom opens and closes. Next thing he knows, he's got an armful of Clint snuggling in, and Nick can't pry himself away.

"Wish I could go and give him a hug," Clint mutters. "He looks like he needs it. Don't you think he needs it?"

Clint talks too much, and Nick shuts him up.

Wait, wait, wait, what _is_ he doing... but Clint kisses back, clutching at him tightly, and it's amazing, the way Nick's heart flutters in his chest contentedly.

~

"So you knew Peggy when she was young?" Bucky asks while he and Nick share a beer on the porch.

It's 4AM and he can't sleep after he's calmed Clint out of another nightmare.

"Yeah," Nick returns, "she was my father's friend. She'd always come around with candy for me," he smiles. "Hell of a lady."

Bucky nods. "I remember her."

"She taught me how to shoot," Nick adds, then proceeds to tell him about how he got into trouble for poking bullet holes into dad's favorite pants as they hung on the string to dry.

By the time he's finished, Bucky is laughing lightly and Nick's chest clenches. _Fucking traitor._

"When Steve's coming by tomorrow you should ask him about that time Peggy shot him," Bucky smirks.

"He's coming _again_?" Nick asks, eyebrows raised. "Romanov just left, for--How am I to get peace and quiet around here with them showing up to see you two all the time?"

A huff, and Bucky squeezes his shoulder. "They're coming for you, too, you know."

Nick grumbles, but it warms him to know they care.

~

Fine, they're _his_ idiots. The both of them.

Happy now? Nick glares at his coffee.

How in the hell did he manage to fall for these two is beyond him. Not for one, but two assassins. Ever since that night a week back when he's kissed Clint, nothing else happened but for Clint crawling into his bed to sleep every night. Well, he's mostly staring at the ceiling while Nick sleeps, but who can blame Clint.

"Good morning," Nick tells the empty room.

A crash follows, then a soft "ow."

Nick fills up a second mug, then a third, places them on the table before returning to his own drink. He hums to himself while watching the sunlight fall on the trees outside and listening to the movements of the other two. First Clint slinks over, then Bucky makes his way in. They're so quiet, it raises goosebumps on Nick's skin. Must have been cats in a previous life.

That joke Phil told him once about herding cats comes to mind and he stifles a laugh.

Well, it could be worse. He thanks the universe at large for not falling for someone even more difficult, like Stark, for instance. Hill would've had a field day with that. _Field. Day._

But from having feelings to actually having them returned is a long way, and Nick rolls his eyes at himself before twisting to look at the other two bickering over the merits of sugar in coffee. Maybe he has a chance with Clint, but Bucky... Nick shakes his head. Not in _this_ lifetime.

~

"Is this your idea of funny, Barton?" Nick grits, anger bubbling up his throat. It earns him raised eyebrows. Hah, Nick should've known better. "Fine, you got your laugh," he throws the paper back at Clint. "I don't even know _why_ I fell in love with your ass," he mutters and presses his palms over his face.

Fucking hilarious. Clint presenting Nick with a note claiming Bucky needs them, all smug and smirking. Nick should've seen the other shoe drop, but he hasn't expected such cruelty, from _Clint_ of all people.

"You're in love with my ass?" Clint squeaks.

When Nick looks at him, he's standing there, hugging his slinged arm with his other, eyes wide and mouth open. He doesn't look like he knew. Nick frowns. "Yes?"

A bark of laughter comes out of Clint. "For a second there I thought you said you were in love with m--oh my god..."

Nick can't help but laugh himself, but it's so relieved that he shudders with it.

"Goddamn idiot," Nick gasps.

"Hey," Clint starts, but Nick cuts him off.

"I mean me," he says. "So the note is real?" he asks and Clint nods. "And do you," he waves a hand between them.

Clint nods again, eyes too bright.

"Huh." Nick hasn't bitten his lip in decades, but he does it now. It's a sign of nervousness, and he tamps it down. "What if I told you I fell in love with _his_ ass, too?" he asks, tilting his head toward where Bucky's bedroom is.

"I already knew that," Clint returns, words soft and barely above a whisper.

Nick raises to his feet, takes a step toward Clint. "Because you see better from a distance, don't you?" he offers and places both his hands on the sides of Clint's head as he nods. "And you couldn't see this," Nick continues.

Clint's eyelids fall closed, his lips are warm, and it feels like he's melting against Nick.

It's incredible.

~

They go to Bucky's bedroom a few days later. After they've talked about this. Clint's been entirely serious about everything. Heh, looks like he _can_ stop being a child for a moment when he wants to. But Nick wouldn't change Clint for the world, pranks or not.

~

Someone is talking. _Why_ is someone talking? What goddamn crackass of dawn time is it...

"It's just been the three of us here, you seriously didn't figure it out?"

"Give a fella a break," comes back before a hand caresses Nick's shoulder.

Nick squints his good eye open. Clint and Bucky are sitting against the headboard, on either side of Nick. He closes it again, letting out a satisfied sigh.

More soft words are exchanged, but Nick contents himself with drifting in and out of sleep. This feels pretty good, over all.

"I mean have you seen him naked?"

"Caught a glimpse one time."

A pause, and then, "can I be in the middle first?"

Nick's eyes snap open. "Barnes, Barton," he says, voice heavy with sleep, "if anyone's gonna be in the middle, it's me."

"Aw," comes from Clint, "how come?"

"Age before beauty," Nick mutters.

"I'm one hundred," Bucky returns, poking at Nick's shoulder.

"You're a punk, is what you are." Nick really wants to go back to sleep.

The other two laugh, low and deep and so soothing, it's making Nick's heart flutter behind his ribs.

When he wakes up next, he's alone, but there's already coffee waiting for him in the kitchen. Made over the stove, just as he likes it. Nick sips while Bucky winks at him with the widest smile he's ever seen on him so far, and while Clint flips pancakes expertly.

Nick wonders if he's going to have to scrape batter off the ceiling.

They're both idiots, but he's one as well.

Theirs, it seems, when breakfast unwinds without surprises for a change.

Nicks likes it. It's finally peaceful out here.

"You know," Clint says halfway through, "I've never given a blow job before."

Huh.

"But you _know_ how to pilot a plane," Bucky returns.

Nick chokes.

Idiots. Amazing indeed.

~


	12. Steve & Darcy

"What are you doing in my room?"

"Uh... this is _my_ room?"

Steve's eyebrows knit tighter in their frown and he crosses his arms. The da--wo--la--lady, young lady in front of him stares back wide eyed, clutching the towel closer around herself. Her long hair is dripping wet all over Steve's favorite sweater that he's left on the bed. On second glance, there are more clothes already strewn around the room than Steve actually owns. That skirt is definitely not his.

"I'm sorry miss, but it's mine. I've been living here for months."

She raises an eyebrow, gaze skittering around the space. "Doesn't look very lived in."

Steve huffs. He likes order, ok? Bucky'd always tease him about it. Not anymore though, and that stings, along with the way Bucky keeps him at a distance. He gets it, Bucky needs space to heal. Or at least Steve _hopes_ he's healing. He doesn't want to consider any alternative.

"Did you take yourself out of a catalog along with it?" the lady continues, arm waving about, a smirk forming on her lips.

Steve rolls his eyes. She sounds like Bucky when they were kids, before he got his drier sense of humor. It makes him like her, even though she's a stranger. In _his_ room.

But it doesn't look like she's here to attack. Unless she wants him with his guard down and _then_ make her move. Steve squints his eyes, mentally going through options of sounding the alarm.

"Dude, are you going to keep staring, or can I get dressed?" comes next as she rotates one finger in the air. "Not that I'd mind a specimen like you looking, but you'd have to buy me dinner first, so turn around."

That's it. All he wanted was to get some sleep, after the three day mission he's had. Thankfully he managed a shower before debrief, ate something on the way back to the tower. All he still wants is to get in bed and relax his sore muscles.

"Please get dressed somewhere else," he returns. "This is my room."

"It's mine. Pepper said third door on the left. This is third," she counters with a wave. The towel slips a bit, but she catches it in time.

Steve almost averts his look, but this is no game. He really wants his bed right now. "This is second."

She snorts in response. "You need to learn to count."

"First door is a linen closet," Steve says.

She presses her lips, eyes narrowing, and Steve widens his stance while raising his chin. He reckons he's got good chances if she attacks, _whatever_ her superpowers might be.

"Fine," she grits.

Steve braces for... the towel coming off? Ack!

Ok, no. He turns his head quickly to give her privacy, but then a victorious _'hah'_ follows.

Right, they were in the middle of an argument. And he looks back at her. Stares with his most unmoving stare, even though his cheeks should be red by now, he can feel them heat. But as he said, this is no game. It seems she takes it seriously as well, because she crosses her own arms, right below her naked breasts. Good move, but Steve will not cave. She's not the first naked woman to do that in front of him. The girls on tour always tried to fluster him. He won then, he'll win now.

"I just want to sleep in my own bed. Find somewhere else to be," he tells her.

The exact moment that his words make their way to her, Steve sees it. A spark in her eyes so mischievous that Steve curses himself silently. Way to give the enemy a weapon. But he's tired. He just wants to sleep.

She shifts with a smirk and slides in under the covers.

Great.

Just great.

He could always get to another room. But this is _his_ bed, with _his_ comforter and _his_ pillow, and it's also the middle of the night, so he doesn't want to bother anyone.

So he shucks off his shoes and slides right in on the other side. That should teach her.

At least she smells nice. And she's warm next to him where his arm brushes hers. And she's quiet as Steve lets her soft breaths lull him to sleep.

Something wet flops onto his face.

Steve shudders with a shout against her loud laugh. But all he cares about right now is to get back to falling asleep, so he pulls and prods and pushes until there's warmth in his arms, the wet hair's safely tucked away, and soft breaths tickle the side of his neck.

~

The morning is less awkward than he'd thought it would be.

She disappears while he showers, _without_ taking her belongings. It's halfway through breakfast that Steve realizes he's not wearing his own t-shirt, when Sam winks at him with a smirk. It's says _'specimen'_ across his chest.

In retaliation, he hides all her bras.

She's annoyed in the evening when she returns, but somehow they end up curled around each other again.

The next morning is even less awkward.

~

Another three days later, Steve realizes he doesn't know her name.

"Hey, so what's--" he freezes as he enters his room.

They've been messing with each other all this time, but... she really crossed the line with this one. That's Bucky's hoodie she's wearing and a bitter pang travels through Steve.

He turns on his heels. He can't do this anymore.

~

"Morning," Bucky says as he sits next to Steve on the sofa, plate of toast in his hands.

"Morning," Steve returns before he snatches one of the slices.

"Get your own," Bucky mutters.

"Nah, yours taste better." It's a sweet memory, of how Steve used to steal Bucky's food, especially when medicine made everything taste like ash. They had a game going. It worked.

Bucky snickers and Steve nudges him with his shoulder.

That's when he smells it. Her scent on him. It's the same hoodie as last night that Bucky is now wearing and Steve stills. Bucky though, he continues eating silently while the news roll on the television across the room. Steve can't help but notice that he's somehow a little more relaxed. A little brighter as he sniffles at the hem of his hoodie while he chews.

And it hurts.

~

She's gone from his room when he gets back.

Bucky keeps sniffing at his own clothes. Steve does the same, and it's always her scent mixed with Bucky's. It makes Steve's stomach twist with something he doesn't want to acknowledge.

In the end, he can't tell which one of them sparks this sudden jealousy.

It's a good thing he has missions to run. Reasons to try and push these feelings out of his head.

~

It doesn't work.

"You know Darcy, right?" Jane tells Steve as he joins everyone in the living room for a post-battle movie.

Steve doesn't, but she looks at him warily, and he is no mood to start a discussion here, so he nods. The only free spot though, is between Bucky and Darcy.

He spends the evening there, surrounded by them. It's horrible.

This yearning.

~

The next day he starts taking Bucky's hoodies back from her, but he can't help but wear them for a while before returning them to Bucky's closet.

~

"He left this for you," Steve tells Darcy as he hands over the note.

It takes all the strength he has to do this. Give up all hope, on both of them.

They are so different, yet so alike. One young, one old, much like Steve feels all the time. One from this new world, one from his previous one, that Steve thinks of home whenever he's in both their presence. Dark hair, blue eyes, their lips, smirks that balance each other, their fingers. Steve's notebooks have been full of them for the past weeks.

He leaves as quickly as he can on the mission he has lined up. It's the best he can do.

~

Steve looks around himself. He is entirely certain this is _his_ room.

"What are you doing here?" he rasps.

"Invading your space with nakedness," Darcy returns.

She's wearing that towel again, fresh out of the shower, just like the first time.

"Why aren't you with Bucky?"

A beat, as she chews her lip. Steve has never seen her nervous before and it makes his insides squirm. If she did something to make Bucky unhappy...

"I asked him to trust _us_ , left a note," she says. "He hasn't said no yet."

"Us," Steve croaks.

A nod comes back. "He likes how his clothes smell after we both wear them."

"And you know this how?"

Darcy licks her lips. "I kinda asked Jarvis to spy on Bucky. And you. Uh... I'mkindacrushingonyouboth," she mutters, almost inaudible.

Steve's heart beats hard against his ribs. He subtly pinches himself. Nope, he's awake.

And there's hope. _More_ than he can stifle.

"I'm kinda crushing on you both," he repeats her words.

"Sorry," she grimaces, looking away.

This is not the reaction he's been expecting, even though it confirms what he's heard. "No, no, me too."

A blink. Then a smile so wide overtakes her face, that Steve shivers.

This is good.

~

Something tickles at Steve's ear. He groans, pushing the wet strands of hair away from his own face. More of it lands on his opposite cheek, dripping into the pillow. Weight settles heavier into both his sides and Steve forces his eyelids open.

Oh. Oh... they're so beautiful when they kiss.

Right above him. Dripping water onto his face. For a second, he entertains the idea of going back to sleep, but their mouths are on his cheeks. Soon, they'll be on his neck, and then... Steve smiles to himself, letting his eyes fall closed.

This is more than good.

It's amazing.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this was harder to write, especially since there's very little character development for Darcy. But I tried. Make of it what you will. I can't tell if she's OOC or whatever. Thank you for reading! o/


	13. Clint & Phil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, guys. Yesh, I took liberties with their ages, but I wanted to write them well rooted into each other. Wiser with life. I hope you like it. Thank you for reading.   
> [[dragonland](http://intermittently-ava.tumblr.com/)]

"But he's so young."

"He's twice our ages," Phil returns, sliding his glasses up his nose.

"Hah, speak for yourself. I'm ten years younger than y--"

"You only look ten years younger, Barton."

Clint smirks into the pillow, but he's sure Phil can see that. "And you like that about me. Arm candy and sugar da--"

"Don't." Phil's hand presses Clint's face further into the material, effectively muffling his words.

Clint gaps with laughter, lifts himself on an elbow when Phil lets him go.

"Baby," Phil says, leaning closer, and Clint hums as he grips the lapel of Phil's pajama shirt between his fingers. "You're a month older than me," he continues, voice low and breathy and giving Clint goosebumps. "If anyone's gonna be a sugar daddy, it's you."

The recoiling shudder that overtakes Clint is so sudden, he hits his flapping hand on the headboard. "Eweagh!"

"Now you know how that feels," Phil returns, unperturbed, as he goes back to his newspaper.

Clint plops down with a sigh. "He's so young," he murmurs.

"I know," Phil says, hand coming to scratch at the top of Clint's head.

"I mean, I had two days of brainwashing, he had seventy years of torture. Wish there was something I could do."

The hand in his hair stops and Clint looks up. Phil's both eyebrows are raised.

"There is," Phil says and Clint lifts himself into a sitting position as Phil puts the newspaper away. "Try and befriend? You're both snipers, get him into the range. Use your Barton charm."

"Aw, charm. That will surely scare him," Clint sniffs.

Phil smiles his small smile, the one that he never shows anyone except those close to him, and Clint steals it with a peck. Well, it's not a bad idea, to try and help Barnes.

~

"What are you wearing?"

"Oh," Clint looks down at himself, then waves at Phil. "Must've swapped hoodies by accident at the Tower. Mission?"

"Yeah, two weeks. Talked to Simone to water our plants."

"I can water our plants," Clint crosses his arms with a pout. He only killed those flowers once.

Phil wraps an arm around him. "Go interact with Barnes. Annoy Stark. Get me a nudie of Rogers."

Clint rolls his eyes and smacks the back of his hand on Phil's chest.

"I'm serious. Of him and Barnes. It was my best teenage fantasy."

"Agh, stop that," Clint covers his ears ineffectively, while Phil laughs.

He's happy that after all these years this is still happening so naturally between them. When Clint was a brat and Phil was a newbie, Clint had made it his mission to disturb the undisturbable Coulson. Phil won that game, but Clint won Phil. It's been twenty years and they're still strong.

~

"Why are they purple?"

"Why not?" Clint returns, eyebrows raised.

Barnes pokes at him toast with a metal finger, his other hand wrapped in the sleeve of the hoodie that Clint's returned an hour ago to Barnes' closet. Clint can't explain why he keeps doing it, but he finds himself stealing something of Barnes' and sleeping in it. He misses Phil. Maybe that's it. And Stark's beds smell too sterile. No wonder Barnes likes to sniff at the clothes Clint returns.

"A sniper should be stealthy," comes back and Clint shrugs.

"Yeah, I got unnoticeable aids, but I'm not on mission now. Can wear what I want," he says with a grin.

"Dye won't keep on it," comes back with a roll of the metal wrist.

Barnes looks at him as if he's trying to see all the way through Clint and Clint shivers. So he turns to get a refill of his coffee. That's when he sees them. Purple gloves for washing dishes, shoved behind the toaster and the oven mitts.

"Here," he rips one out of the box and flaps it toward Barnes with a grin. "Makes yourself pretty, Barnes."

It hits Barnes in the face. Clint laughs. But Barnes puts it on over the metal hand, then methodically makes a fist, lifts his middle finger.

"Name's Bucky, Francis."

"Hey, who told you that?!"

~

"I kinda did something stupid," Clint tells Phil, heart pounding behind his ribs.

Phil stills for a moment, then closes the door of the apartment behind him and drops his bag.

"Stupid like jumping off a building, or stupid like bringing Romanov in?"

"IkindafellinlovewithBucky."

~

Clint doesn't understand what he did in his previous life to deserve a man like Phil, but it must have been something really good. Phil's even helping him steal Bucky's clothes.

They talked about it. If anything's going to come out of this, then they'll both be in it.

Which is entirely surprising, for both of them, because they aren't into these things. Exploring. Being wild. Stuff between them is boring, but gentle and slow and that's how Clint likes it.

Now, though.

Phil thinks Bucky's going to like the gentleness. He's going to love the slowness.

"He'll adore how tender you are," Phil murmurs with a soft peck to Clint's shoulder.

"You don't know that he even likes us."

"He does."

Phil is convinced, but Clint's seen people run from his life before. So many people. He lets Phil lull him to sleep, though, with nice thoughts that turn into sweet dreams.

~

"Ok, you need to wipe that smug smirk off your face." Clint scowls.

"I told you he likes us," Phil waves the note Bucky's left for them.

Clint snorts. But frick. He's so happy.

~


	14. Maria & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Sometimes I headcanon Maria with a hard shell and a soft gooey inside. Is what I do. *hides*

"Hill."

"Barton."

"What brings you around these lovely parts?"

"Came to mooch off of Stark," Maria replies, amusement in her voice.

But her eyes are hard, that thing in them that Clint knows all too well. He tilts his head minutely to the side, then slinks out of the kitchen. She follows. The room is empty, but this conversation doesn't need accidental eavesdropping, so Clint leads them to his room, closes the door behind him and asks JARVIS to switch to the privacy setting.

"Who?" Clint asks.

"Barnes."

There's a grimace that twists his lips and Clint doesn't bother hiding it.

"Tried to convince him we don't need to spy on Barnes, but you know Fury," Maria says with a sigh. "At least I managed to land the detail myself. Help me assess his danger level and I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Clint shakes his head. Fury had agents monitor him as well, right after the Loki thing. He sent them back in tears. That's when Maria took their place. Everything Clint threw at her, she deflected with grace and a smile on her lips. But she never judges. Always tries to understand. Always waits to have all info before making an assessment. So Clint's happy she's here instead of some shmuck shrink.

"It's not you," Clint offers a smile.

He likes Maria more than he should. Maybe he could try asking her out. But she's notorious around SHIELD for turning everyone down. Like a surgical strike, every time. People are as wary of her as they are of Nat. But as with Nat, Clint's seen her relax and joke and her smile is genuine in a way that fills Clint's belly with butterflies.

"You what?!" Maria turns to him, eyes wider than Clint's ever seen.

He smacks his hand over his mouth. He tries to swear, but only a whine comes out.

~

He doesn't see Maria around the Tower for days. And he's been actively looking, wanting to apologize and assure her he'll never mention it again. He doesn't want to lose her friendship.

But she's nowhere to be seen.

And because Clint's brain does what it wants, for some reason it thinks that stealing one of Bucky's hoodies is going to lure her out.

That's how it starts. The worst and best month of Clint's life.

~

Maria still avoids him, but Bucky doesn't hide how content he feels when he wears something Clint's stolen and returned. He notices it once, twice, over ten times, and it brings his heart to a frantic beat in his chest.

Aw, dummy. Not the assassin, too. Between Bucky and Maria, Clint has zero chances.

He only realizes how gone he is for both of them when he finds himself in one of Maria t-shirts under Bucky's hoodie, his own arms wrapped around himself, the emptiness of his room heavy around him.

~

Clint steps into his room, muscles aching after his long workout, to find Maria curled up in one of the armchairs next to the window. She is wearing the t-shirt Clint returned this morning, her profile illuminated only by the night lights of the city streaming in from outside.

"You stretched it," she whispers, plucking at the material over her chest.

Clint swallows, frozen where he stands.

With an exhale through her nose, Maria looks up. "I'm not good at this," she says. "I can't talk about feelings. I don't hold hands in public. I'll punch you in the dick if you try to kiss me in public."

"What..." Clint squeaks.

"If you bring me flowers, expect some in return," Maria continues. "I don't cook. I like to be on top. There will be no children, unless adopted. I think Christmas is stupid, but I like it anyway, so I go overboard with that crap. I once killed a pregnant woman because she was about to blow up a bunch of children. It was her or the kids. I don't regret my decision. I'll murder you in your sleep if you tell anyone about our private lives. Fuck! Why are you crying?"

And she flails so inelegantly as she rushes out of the chair, that laughter bubbles out of Clint along with the relief.

"Sorry, sorry," Clint says, gripping her fingers, while he tries to wipe his cheek on his own shoulder. "I just... are you serious?"

"About what part?"

"You liking me," Clint sniffs.

Maria rolls her eyes. "Don't be stupid, Barton. I don't like you," she grits, looking away.

"Wh--"

"I've had a crush on you since we met at orientation," comes next in a mutter.

Clint's mouth opens and closes a few times, words gone. He's... she's...

"Kiss me already," she demands and Clint leans in.

But.

"Wait," he says.

Maria's frame goes from vibrating to rigid in a fraction of a second and she takes a step back.

"You should know the full extend of my stupid before we..." Clint clears his throat awkwardly.

A frown, and she crosses her arms. "What'd you do?"

Clint breathes in and out. Here goes nothing. "I'm crushing on Bucky."

Her face goes from stony to appalled. Clint winces.

"So I just made an ass of myself?"

"Wh--no, no! I love you!" he shouts, waving his hands.

Ok, Maria's red face is the best thing he's ever seen.

"We're so bad at this," Maria wheezes.

Clint couldn't agree more.

~

Maria is incredibly understanding about Clint's interest in Bucky. Which shouldn't work with them, given how new this thing is between them. Nat tells them as much. Nat also thinks Bucky might be inclined to be with them as well.

Clint is not so sure, but then he finds a note in Bucky's closet asking for the thief of his clothes to come out.

The next morning finds Clint hugging the coffee pot over the kitchen table when Bucky shuffles in. He glares at Clint until Clint surrenders his loot, but then he gives the pot back. Clint blows him a kiss and Bucky growls at him.

"Good morning, Sgt. Barnes," Maria says as she walks in. "Sweetheart," and she bends to place a kiss on the top of Clint's head.

What.

She said she doesn't... what is she playing at? And Clint squints his eyes at her.

"Morning, and call me Bucky, ma'am," Bucky returns.

"Only if you stop with the ma'am crap."

"Noted."

"Food?"

Clint watches them slide around each other while the kitchen fills with yummy aromas. It's like watching them dance.

A plate is placed in front of him, then Maria's fingers caress his hair. Ok, she's definitely up to something. But Clint won't complain.

"How long have you been together," Bucky asks, and when Clint looks at him, there's a wistful set to his face.

Maria looks too smug. "Not long," she returns.

But she isn't smug about being with Clint. Nah, she's smug about proving to Clint that he can indeed have everything he wants and she'll make damn sure he gets it.

How Clint got so lucky with her, he doesn't know.

~

"Ready?" she asks, wrapping her fingers around his wrist.

"You?"

"For you, dummy, anything," she smiles as they walk toward Bucky's room. "Besides, he's not bad on the eyes. Has that wicked metal arm."

Clint returns her smile. "Kiss on cheek, please?"

She tilts her head. "Go ahead."

~

Yeah, worst and best month of his life. When he got his babies. Which he will not call as such out loud. Their combined glares and dry sense of humor are deterrent enough. But when they're alone, door locked and covered in blankets, it's time to bring the walls down, and Clint's home.

~


	15. Tony & Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Hope everyone's having a good weekend. Started work on the next Nameless chapter, but I don't know if I can manage finishing it this weekend. We'll see. In the meantime, here's some science bros :3 Thank you for reading! o/

"Look, I'm just saying. Would be good to take a look under the hood," Tony says, twirling a screwdriver.

Bruce leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "No."

Uh. Tony sighs, throwing both hands in the air. "You make an awful Barnes. Not even he is that grumpy. Or lifeless."

And that makes Bruce raise an eyebrow in that way he does when he finds something interesting in his data. Oh-oh. Tony eyes the doors, while Bruce props a leg against the floor to slide his chair between Tony and the exit. He shouldn't have asked Bruce to help Tony practice his speech on why Bucky should let Tony tinker with his arm. Ok, but this doesn't magically disappear Bruce and his sudden interest. Tony can almost see the exclamation mark pop up over Bruce's eternally uncombed curls. Well, he combs them, it just looks like he isn't, Tony's see him do it with his own eyes, which reminds him of that time Tony staged a mutiny when he was twelve because he wasn't allowed into the lab and refused haircuts altogether. Actually, he almost looked like Bucky does now. But Bucky's hair isn't uncombed either, although Tony's never observed the action himself, he did see Bucky sift his long fingers through it and it looked so soft...

"Tony!"

"What."

Bruce is staring too intently, and then he's leaning forward. Tony tries to find something to distract him, but it's too late.

"You like him," Bruce says. "Like him, like him."

"What is this, gossip time?" Tony returns, but even he can recognize how weak that reply is.

Yep, it's not working, given the way Bruce keeps staring. Tony rolls his eyes.

"Ok, fine. I like him," he admits and a corner of Bruce's mouth lifts into the beginning of a smirk. "Gah, your grin is creepy, stop that," he adds, but he can't school his own lips into behaving.

His cheeks are warm, too, his heart's pounding in his chest, and thank Kalman that Bruce hasn't figured out Tony likes him as well.

"So that shirt from yesterday really was his," Bruce says.

Tony's shoulders slump. They've had a too long talk about that and Tony's barely come out of it undiscovered. It's why Bruce figured it out so fast just now.

"Yeah," he sighs, throwing the screwdriver on the workbench.

Bruce leans back and crosses his arms again, frown on his face. Agh, here comes. The lecture. Pepper's given him one already, thanks, how Tony's supposed to take care of himself and stay away from Barnes because, one, Barnes is dangerous and two, Steve's all up in that. Can't compete with Steve. Well, Pepper didn't say that, but Tony knows better. Actually, Pepper never said to stay away, either, but be careful. Details.

"I didn't know you two were together," Bruce says, and he sounds as choked as Tony feels.

What. Tony blinks fast. Does Bruce...

"You're into him?" Tony asks, taking a step closer.

Laughter follows from Bruce. Not at all what one would expect. But if Bruce and Bucky got to be happy, then Tony will be happy.

"Not all that smart after all," Bruce throws between chuckles as he raises to his feet, starts walking away.

"Hey!" Tony shouts after him. "What's that--"

"Sir," JARVIS interrupts, "Ms. Potts is here to see you."

~

And Tony forgets all about that conversation, until the next day that is, when JARVIS tells him that both Bruce and Bucky are on their way down to the lab.

He panics for a moment, because he's stolen a t-shirt from Bruce and topped it with the shirt from Bucky he hasn't returned yet, but he shucks both off.

"Why are you naked?" Bucky asks.

"I'm not na--" he starts as he looks down at himself. Ah, he forgot pants.

He turns around as fast as he can to hide his heated cheeks, beelines to the locker in the corner that holds spare sweats for when his work clothes catch fire. That happened once. Once. Yet, here he is, JARVIS keeps the locker well stocked.

"So," he turns back to his visitors, "what brings you here?"

Bucky lifts his left arm, while Bruce points at the metal plates. "Brought him for a check up, doc."

Bruce's half grin is so pleased that it makes Tony's stomach flip. This would be a good time to kiss him senseless, but...

"How did you convince him?" he asks Bruce to distract himself.

"He said I could fly to space in your suit," Bucky returns.

Tony blinks. Bucky's face is locked in that almost permanent half frown, but his eyes are hopeful. His eyes tell so much, if only one pays attention.

"Well, you can't fly to space-space in it," Tony says and hell, he should stop talking because now Bucky's scowling for real, "but maybe close enough, like the upper atmosphere, it's really pretty up there, almost too close to the stars, so yeah, sure," and Tony snaps his mouth shut because babbling never helped him.

But Bucky smiles.

And Tony feels stabbed right in the chest.

~

"Wow," Bruce says and Tony smirks smugly.

The three of them are floating as high up as the suits can take them. It's Tony in his newest, Bruce and Bucky in a couple of spares. JARVIS is doing a great job of flying two suits at once, and Tony wonders how many he can manage concurrently, maybe he can write an advanced algorithm...

"Thank you," comes from the earpiece, in Bucky's low rasp, distracting Tony.

Next thing he knows, Bruce and Bucky are bickering over what stars form what constellations. It's butterfly inducing. Tony is so screwed.

~

He forgot he left the clothes he stole in the locker. He forgot and told Bruce to grab a spare t-shirt from it when Bruce's own got sprayed with grease.

And now Bruce is holding up his own sweater and Bucky's sweatpants in both hands, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"It's not what you think," Tony says immediately.

"And what do I think?"

Uh... ok, maybe Tony doesn't know what's going through Bruce's head right now. Tony's mouth opens and closes a few times, but nothing comes out. Not even useless ranting. His mind's silent for a change.

This is too awkward, and it roots Tony to the spot.

"You know," Bruce says again, "it made sense that Bucky kept sniffing at his own clothes, since you were wearing them, but I didn't understand why he kept asking JARVIS about who was breaking into his closet, both the thief and the accomplice."

Tony's throat is dry.

"Quite a few other things are also clear," Bruce continues. "Like where my favorite sweater went. And why it smells like Bucky. But explain to me, why are you doing this, why are you mocking me."

What. No.

"Is this how you tell me I'll never have a chance with you?"

Wait, no. You got it all wrong.

Bruce's face blurs.

"Whoa, Tony, hey! Tony!"

The world darkens.

~

"Here," Bruce says as he hands over a glass of water.

Tony drinks it slowly, but it's still faster that he'd like, because now that he's stopped hyperventilating, Bruce is looking at him expectantly. Well, fuck. Tony has told the world he is Iron Man, so he can tell Bruce he is... a deep breath.

Rip off the bandaid.

"I like you both."

Scrape at the wound, make it bleed again.

"Love you both, actually."

Get it over it, so you can patch it back up after he leaves.

"This," Tony points at the stolen clothes resting next to them on the table, "started a few months ago with yours. I took his about four weeks ago... and I just." He closes his eyes, pushes the words out. "I don't know why I keep doing it, but it's like. I just, it's like you're hugging me."

And it really does, feels like arms are around him when he wears both their clothes. It's the best thing ever, and Tony wraps his own arms around him, trying to hold onto the feeling, because from now on he won't have it anymore.

But the warmth doubles, as if it's real, and it takes a beat before Tony realizes Bruce is indeed embracing him.

"You're not mad," he rasps, daring to push his face against Bruce's neck.

Fingers come to rub at the back of Tony's head, keeping him there.

Can he hope or is this pity...

"Not mad. Happy," Bruce returns, sending Tony's heart into overdrive in his chest. "I fell for you, too."

"Yeah?" Tony manages, unsure he's hearing it right. But Bruce nods with an echoed 'yeah' against his temple. "Since when?"

"Since you called me a green rage monster," Bruce huffs.

"You're horrible."

"You're worse."

"Yeah, I am," Tony returns. Which reminds him... he pushes back, dares look at Bruce. "I'm also--"

Bruce's palm presses over Tony's lips, effectively cutting him off. "We've known each other for two years. I know all your issues, Tony. Would still like to take you out."

Uh. Tony blinks. Ok, he clearly isn't dreaming and Bruce clearly isn't lying. And Tony's an idiot for not seeing it sooner. He spends almost every waking hour with Bruce. Sometimes goes to sleep in Bruce's bed when his own is too cold, they remind each other to eat, and plenty of times they've calmed each other down. Tony, he realizes, also knows all of Bruce's issues.

"Aren't we married already?" he jokes.

The smile he gets in return is small, but so warm, it makes the butterflies in his belly swirl.

"But really," Bruce continues, face turning serious, and Tony catches his wrist, removes Bruce's hand from his mouth.

"Really," he says. "I know what you can and what you can't, 'm good with it."

Ah. Bruce should really smile more. Tony tells him as much.

~

Tony clearly did something good in his past lives if he's this lucky now. Bruce tells him it has nothing to do with luck, but Tony begs to differ. JARVIS has just announced them that Bucky wrapped the blindfold they left around his eyes and Tony vibrates.

Bruce fiddles with a drug vile before he presses it onto his skin, releasing its contents with a low hiss.

"You don't need that," Tony repeats. They've argued about this for days after they found Bucky's note calling them out.

"I think you're excited enough for both of us," Bruce returns, his voice already more mellow than usual. "It's just a mild sedative, doesn't impair my faculties. You ran the tests yourself."

Tony nods, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Ok," he says. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

~

Bucky huffs. It's already past midnight, and he might be able to stay up for days in a row, but that doesn't mean Tony and Bruce should. He puts his training to good use when he pries tools and keyboard out of their hands too fast for them to react.

"Bed. Now," Bucky says, gripping both their collars and steering them toward the door.

"I feel like a naughty cat," Tony says right as they enter the elevator. "Don't you feel like a naughty cat, Brucie?"

Bucky tries really hard not to burst into laughter. He manages, more or less.

"Naught cat, sleepy cat, Bruce forgot to eat today--"

"Tony drank nothing but coffee for the past eight hours."

"Nope, you're the naughty cat, not me."

"Stop saying naughty cat."

"Meow."

Bucky laughs. He's sure JARVIS caught that on tape, and he can't wait to see which one of them will spit their breakfast tomorrow when he'll play the recording for them. Tony, it will be Tony this time, he thinks as he wraps both arms around them, smile playing on his lips.

He's happy with them. All three broken, but none defeated.

And it feels good. Really good.

~


	16. Thor & Jane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by [summerlove_jls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/summerlove_jls/pseuds/summerlove_jls) who provided us with the plot idea! I hope you like it, J! (can I call you J? 'amma call you J, just this once) :)

"Is this yours? I don't remember it being mine," Thor asks, holding up the black... what was the word? Ah. Hoodie, of course, because it has a hood. He is momentarily distracted by how soft the black material is under his fingers.

But then it's plucked right out of his hands, prompting Thor to return to his sorting of socks. It's highly entertaining to mismatch every single pair. Being momentarily relocated to the Tower because... well, let's not dwell on that. Thor side eyes his companion, the cause of so many of their apartment buildings evicting them. Without their deposit back, no less! It's not Mjolnir's fault that the walls were not strong enough!

"I don't think so?" Jane says as she turns the hoodie this side and that.

A pink sock. Who's is it... ah who cares, it goes with one of Steven's blue ones. Thor rolls them in a ball, then admires his work. Jane hasn't noticed yet, so all is good. If he's stuck here sorting the laundry, he might as well enjoy it. Jane said it's the least they can do because Tony is offering them free lodging. She also told him about that one time someone from the staff found three knives, a handgun, and a smoke grenade in the laundry. It didn't end well that, no. So washing machines had been especially installed for any superpowered guests here at the tower. Hence, this sock sorting business.

"How did it get in my load?" Jane muses.

See, that's what Thor doesn't get. The pants and the sweaters and the t-shirts, they all get washed separately, per person as well as color.

Yet these vile... things! These socks. Why are they all mixed?

Thor balls up another pink with a black.

He is ninety two percent sure this stunt will free him from sock sorting duty in the foreseeable future.

"Oh!" Jane waves the hoodie in front of Thor, interrupting his scheming. "It's Bucky's."

Thor frowns at it, trying to figure out the meaning of this information. "Is this another Midgardian custom I am unfamiliar with? Courting?"

"No!"

And the hoodie hits Thor in the face.

"An intern spilled something in the lab, I was in scrubs and it was very cold. The goo got in the vents, JARVIS had to turn off the heating."

"So Bucky gave it to you?" Thor concludes as he pulls the thing off his head.

"Mhm," Jane hums. "No courting."

"Why not? You are beautiful, he is beautiful. A little broken, but what warrior isn't."

With a sigh, Thor folds the hoodie carefully and places it aside. When he turns back to Jane, she is staring at him with that look she has when he manages to surprise her. For what, this time, he doesn't know, but it makes his heart flutter pleasantly nonetheless. He leans in and kisses her cheek.

~

"I can't stop thinking about Bucky," Jane whispers, leaning closer into Thor's side where they're sharing an armchair. It's crammed, but Thor likes the closeness.

"He has captivating eyes," Thor agrees. "Although a little sad."

"No--I mean yes, nice eyes, but no."

He frowns at the top of her head where it's resting on his shoulder.

"The sad part, actually," Jane says before Thor can ask for further explanation. "It breaks my heart a bit. To see him still trying after what he's been through."

Thor hums, scratching his temple. "Maybe we can cheer him up?"

"But how? We don't even know what he likes."

"Maybe we just need to find out. We'll ask," Thor proposes.

"You ask first," Jane says, followed by a nudge with her elbow.

Thor tries, four times in fact, but his conversations start with hello and end in silence because Bucky stares at him until Thor makes a hasty retreat, heart pounding like it did when he was a child running through the parts of Asgard he wasn't supposed to go to.

It's worrisome and exciting at the same time.

~

"Didn't you return this?" Thor asks as he holds up the black hoodie.

"Must've forgotten," Jane says around her apple bite. "What are you doing?"

Thor shrugs the hoodie on and zips it up. "I am out of clean clothes."

"That's because you got us banned from the laundry room."

"Brave Lady Jane," he shuffles closer, takes her hand.

"That is not--"

"I'd be forever in your debt--"

"--going to work."

"If you were to take this up with the Iron Warrior and extend to him our apologies."

"Damn."

Thor grins and steals a peck.

"They think you're a saint, but I see you, buddy," Jane calls after him.

~

"Did you wash the hoodie before you gave it back to him?" Jane asks in a low whisper as they watch Bucky from across the room.

Bucky is curled up in the other armchair, one that is pushed so far out of the way, it might as well be outside the building. It seems lonely and it makes Thor shiver, especially since Bucky hides half his face in the hem, inhales with his eyes closed.

"I put it in his closet," Thor returns.

Jane pauses. For a long time. Thor runs through his mental list of Midgardian customs involving clothing. He finds nothing relevant, but stumbles upon a childhood memory.

"Loki used to be ailing quite often when he was a child," he murmurs, heart twisting with a pang at the distance that is now between him and his brother. "He loved wearing my night garments. Said the smell of family was comforting."

"Maybe Bucky needs just that," Jane whispers back. "Comfort."

~

It's why Thor steals another of Bucky's sweaters. He wears it, taking care not to dirty it beyond recognition, before returning it.

And then a t-shirt. And a flannel shirt. And then the black hoodie again.

Jane tells him it's working, because every time Bucky has the same reaction. Plus, he seems more at peace.

A couple of weeks later, Jane wears the stolen clothes as well, to further test their theory. The results are improving. Bucky even smiles once. Well, it's more like half a smile, but they both can't stop grinning afterwards.

~

"Hello," Thor offers as Bucky walks into the kitchen.

As usual, he gets that cold stare back, and Thor busies himself with the coffee machine. He ends up filling two mugs, so he slides one over to Bucky where he sits at the counter, watching the New York skyline.

"Is there something on my face?" Thor asks when all Bucky does is look at him.

A beat, and Bucky's lips move. His words are almost inaudible. "You're the god of war."

Progress!

"Among other things," Thor returns, taking a seat across from Bucky. "Although I am not an actual deity."

"What's so good about war?"

Bucky's voice is but a mere rasp and it's so... it's so... it turns Thor inside out. He has to swallow against his dry throat before he can speak.

"Hope for a better future," he says.

It earns him a snort. Bucky moves his metal hand between then, clicks his fingertips on the counter top. Oh, so that's--Thor covers Bucky's wrist with his palm.

"Not for us," he continues, leaning in. "We are soldiers. On Asgard, that is synonym with sacrifice. No, we do it for them," he says, waving his free hand at the city outside the windows.

Bucky's face is unreadable, but his eyes are unguarded for once, and Thor can only see anguish in them.

"What about the innocents who die? They didn't choose this sacrifice."

"That is true, my friend." Thor brings his other hand around the glinting metal of Bucky's own. "But do you know what else I'm a god of?"

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"Fertility. There must always be a balance between life and death."

A beat, two, three... and Bucky ducks his head with a huff of laughter. Thor finds his own wide smile impossible to prevent.

"Fertility? Really?" Bucky says, his face holding a trace of amusement when he looks back up. "Well, Jane did say you're sex on legs, whatever that means."

"You talk to Jane?"

"All the time," Bucky replies, brow furrowing. "Actually, she talks, I listen."

"Ah," Thor nods. Jane's endeavors into discovering more about Bucky have been failing as well. But wait. "Sex? No, fertility is about creating new life. Giving breath where it's needed."

"So," Bucky says, "sex."

Thor shakes his head. "Sometimes, a person begins life anew on the ruins of another, past self. Damaged self. Minds can be just as fertile as bodies."

Bucky stares at him, eyes wide as if he's seeing something hidden suddenly. But then he stands up, mutters a thanks for the coffee and rushes out.

Thor's heart twists with a pang.

~

That evening, he finds a note in Bucky's closet.

_'Please. Come out. I need you.'_

Jane spends an entire hour pacing back and forth in their room as she reads the words over and over.

"Is it you or is it me?" she finally asks as she stops, turning to where Thor is sitting on the edge of the bed.

"It can only be the both of us," he returns.

Her smile is brilliant.

~

For the past few months, Bucky has learned a few things.

Jane is the equivalent of a rag doll in the morning, until tea is brought to her. Thor is chipper enough to make Jane hide behind Bucky and Bucky will never admit how smug that makes him. He suspects Thor knows, anyway.

Thor ignores minor injuries. Bucky hauls him to medical because Jane worries and, when Jane worries, the lab catches fire.

Toast with honey is the only thing they'll both eat with their fingers.

It takes between five and ten minutes on average for Thor to convince Bucky to partake in his current prank.

It takes one kiss to his forehead to ensure his nights are terror free.

Oh, and Jane's mind? Filthier than Thor's. But that's a secret. Their secret.

These are all part of his new life. Given to him by the words of a god and sleepy hazel eyes under the light of morning.

Bucky is, indeed, alive.

~


	17. Natasha & Maria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this turned out three times longer than I expected. Bah, I'm tired. So, so tired. *lies on floor*  
> I hope you all enjoy this version of Nat. :)

It's a bet. Been running for years and they're tied so far. The last time Maria won they wanted to see who can steal first the glass paperweight off of Fury's desk. The last time Natasha won, they challenged each other to make Coulson come into work without a tie.

Then they bet on who can get Clint to blush harder, but Clint only lets people mess with him when he wants to. He was no fun after Loki. Which, as understandable as it is, it exhausted Natasha's and Maria's playing field. They'd try May again, but last time she almost slit Maria's neck and they're not going there again. Not for fun.

However... Nat's been staying at Stark Tower. Renamed Avengers Tower. Which opens up new possibilities. She convinces Maria to take the liaison position, although Maria is adamant that all future white hairs she gets because of Stark will be Nat's fault entirely.

Paint a star on the butt of the Iron Man suit. Check. Maria wins.

Braid a flower in Thor's hair unnoticed. Check. Nat wins.

Hide the shield and see how long it takes for Steve to find it. Neither wins because Steve has some sort of sixth sense about it.

Out of boredom, they challenge themselves to swap Clint's coffee with decaf. All their bras are gone the next day. Clint leaves them a note saying _'If you want the hostages back, bring something of equal value. Tony's boxers don't count.'_

They bring him Steve's sketchbook, one that's full of nudes, of guys. No heads though, just details. Clint's face goes red as he snatches it from Maria's hands. The hostages are safe and Nat files this peculiarity for later consideration. It makes her smile, though, that Clint's started living again. She wonders if someone will ever trust her enough to get that close to her.

Probably not.

~

Nat smirks, not bothering to keep the smugness off her face, as she waves the most dangerous hoodie in the tower. She got it from Bucky's closet, worn it for two hours, took it back. Bucky never knew as he wore it himself for the rest of the afternoon. She has snatched the hoodie again, _and_ she has photographic proof.

"How am I supposed to compete with that?" Maria asks the ceiling.

They took a chance with Bucky. Former Winter Soldier, an assassin of legend, the boogie man that Nat used to be scared with during her time in the Red Room. The only operative other than Clint that managed to get a shot in. Nat's admiration for his skill goes deep.

Getting that hoodie feels like a victory over herself as well.

~

It doesn't explain why she keeps stealing his clothes.

It can't be that he likes her smell.

It can't.

~

He does it again. Bucky is seated at the kitchen counter in the open space of the penthouse. Nat can see him from her place near the large windows and she watches him as he pulls his t-shirt over his nose, inhales.

Natasha shivers. Something twists inside her chest, her pulse rises. She feels watched.

Exposed.

Yet everyone else is paying attention to the movie.

She slips out unnoticed. Clint finds her in the gym, emptying her guns.

"I know what you're doing," he says.

Another shot, and another, and another. The paper of the target falls shredded to the ground. Nat turns to him. "How do you stop it?"

Clint smiles, a slow and definitive movement of his lips. "You don't," he says quietly.

No.

She sets the guns down on the table in front of her, closes her eyes for a second, trying to gather up her straying thoughts.

"I am _not_ a child."

"Of course not," Clint says, coming closer until he can wrap his fingers around her elbow. The support is much appreciated and she sways toward him. "Embrace it or not, your choice. But you have to accept it, otherwise it will eat you up inside."

"You embraced it," she returns and it's not a question.

Clint nods, confirming. So much for keeping themselves away from heartache. So much for staying outside the lives of those easily hurt--but wait. Neither Steve nor Bucky are easily breakable. If anything, it's Clint and Nat that are in that position relative to the supersoldiers.

"How can I be sure?"

"Of you or of him?"

"Both," she breathes.

"Replicate the conditions," Clint says. "See if he reacts the same to another person. Then you'll know about him. As for you, I think you already have the answer."

~

Having this running bet with Maria is very helpful. So next time Maria comes to stay with them for a couple of weeks for training and evaluation of teamwork, Nat challenges her. Maria is all too happy to try, seeing how Nat one-upped her last time.

~

Bucky doesn't react the same. He still closes his eyes when he wears something Nat took. His face softens, his shoulders relax, his entire demeanor screams vulnerable and Nat would very much like to march over there and tell him to check his surroundings. Wouldn't do to get sloppy now when Nat--agh.

He bites his lower lip and met with Maria's scent. He chews on it, like he knows a secret and it's a damn good one.

It gives Nat goosebumps because yes. Maria's smell is enticing. But she can also picture the two of them together and they make an image of belonging. An image Nat's not part of, and suddenly she is hit with realization.

But it can't be. She's known Maria for twelve years.

What is this nonsense all of a sudden?

She sneaks off to talk to Clint, but when she gets to his room, Clint's not alone, so she leaves just as silently as she came. Nat scratches her head mentally as she walks to the range.

Two empty clips later, she decides on furthering the context of observation. She wears the clothes that Maria wears and only then does she return them. Also, she finally sees the appeal in shooting mindlessly in the middle of the night. Both Clint and Bucky swear by it. Huh.

~

Bucky smiles and Natasha's being shatters and remakes itself in the span of two seconds.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Maria whispers next to her.

So Maria knows as well. Nat looks at her and is met with awe as Maria stares at Bucky. It hurts, worse than being shot.

"What's wrong?" Maria asks.

When did she turn? Why is she frowning? Nat recoils as the answers come to her. No, she's been careful not to show anything. Her heart is beating too fast to contain, so she does what Clint would do and runs.

She doesn't get very far because Maria intercepts her. Maria, cold and sweet and human and stubborn. Loyal, but not mindlessly. So easily breakable. So strong.

They stand on a corridor, facing each other. A fight is the only way out of this, considering the determined look on Maria, but Nat doesn't want to fight right now. So she nods her head, and Maria follows her to her room.

It's been too long. So as soon as the door closes, Nat pulls off her t-shirt, waits, eyes firmly set on the skyline beyond the windows. The bedroom is dark, but Maria's steps are sure. Her fingers find Nat's spine on the first touch.

They made a bet once, to see who was better at providing orgasms. It's one they've never settled, even though Maria always seems to win.

Her bra is undone and it hits the floor with a soft rasp.

"I think I'm in love with you," Nat breathes. Keep breathing. Keep on breathing.

"Good," comes back, followed by lips to her shoulder.

Nat's exhale is trembling despite herself. The relief is monumental. She wouldn't want to lose Maria. It makes no sense that she blurts the rest.

"I think I'm in love with Bucky, too."

Maria stills behind her.

"I'm turning into Clint," Nat mutters.

"Is he in love with Bucky, too?"

That pulls a bark of laughter out of her. "No. I meant the foot in mouth part of Clint."

Silence follows, but before Nat has time to consider her options, Maria's hand resumes her caress to Nat's spine.

"You said you'd never," Maria says.

Her voice sounds choked and Nat itches to turn, but she has a feeling Maria's not done speaking yet. Indeed, Nat said she would never love. _'It's a matter of simple choice,'_ she used to say, clinically dissecting the symptoms of romantic inclinations. Yet, nobody's told her about the crippling fear of loss.

"I believed you," Maria adds, wetness in her words, before her arms snake around Nat and she's pressed against Maria's front.

It clicks. Almost audibly.

Nat would let herself shake, but she doesn't want her knees to give out. Nobody ever told her how reciprocation feels like, either.

She lifts one of Maria's hands to her lips. "You don't have to anymore."

~

_'Please. Come out. I need you.'_

"I am _not_ giving you up and I'm not going there alone," Nat says as Maria reads the note.

"This is clearly for you."

Nat raises an eyebrow at her, causing Maria to roll her eyes. "Ok, smartass."

But that night Bucky looks lost and something pangs achingly inside her chest.

~

The night sky is beautiful from this high. Nat leans into Maria's side as they sit on the edge of the balcony.

"I was prepared to live my life out alone," Maria says.

Nat opens her mouth to reply, but Maria shakes her hand, asking for silence.

"The fact that you are with me now, like this," Maria continues, wrapping an arm around Nat's shoulders, "is... is unbelievable. Yet, you didn't stop at me, which is even more surprising."

Oh. Nat can see where this is going, but she closes her eyes, lets Maria finish.

"I don't want to rob anyone of what I'm feeling right now," Maria whispers. "I'll do it."

"For me?" Nat asks.

"For you," Maria confirms, and Nat can't let her... "and for him, and for me."

The smile that pulls at Nat's lips is filling her chest with heat.

~

Maria sleeps. She is on her back between them, her face relaxed, yet still managing to look like a marble statue, even in the low light sifting in from the windows. With a soft exhale, Nat extends her hand and runs her fingertips on Bucky's cheek. He's leaning on an elbow, watching them both.

Most nights they either can't or don't need to sleep. So they end up guarding Maria's slumber, an understanding that they never need to hash out with words. They'll both protect her.

Bucky smiles, the corners of his mouth crinkling with it. His eyes shine, as well. He's come a long way from the lifeless ghost he was when he first arrived to the tower. On his own, which Nat considers a rookie move, but hey. It got him to her, so she won't comment on it.

"You two are creeping me out," Maria mutters, voice thick, "go to sleep."

Bucky smirks. "We love you, too," he tells Maria, placing a kiss on her forehead.

Nat finds herself gasping.

 _'Happy birthday,'_ Bucky mouths at Nat.

 _'Really?'_ she mouths back.

She's been hoping, ever since that night eight months ago when Bucky trusted them enough to let them into his life, that he'd see what she sees in Maria. And now--but then, this admission, it's a present _to her_ , one that Bucky wouldn't give her if he he didn't... Nat grins, chest overfull.

Maria whines and rolls over toward Bucky.

Natasha wins, undisputed.

~


	18. Natasha & Pepper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, these ladies are badass :3  
> Again, not beta'd. You know what to do.

"I'm not stealing one of Clint's hoodies," Nat says before taking a swig of her beer.

"Why not? I'd look good in purple," Pepper returns around that smirk that lights up her face.

Nat raises an eyebrow to hide how that's affecting her. Ever since they made common front against Tony during her stint undercover as Pepper's executive assistant, Nat couldn't get her out of mind.

"Maybe Steve's sweater, blue would suit you better," Nat says.

"Please," Pepper says as she picks up her own beer from the coffee table. "If you get that one, you're wearing it yourself." She grins, laughter already on the way in the set of her shoulders.

Nat spares a look at the vibrant red of her hair. "Mh, and maybe paint my face white while I'm at it, have an entire flag."

Pepper laughs fully by now, shoulders shaking. It's doing something to Nat's insides and she gulps more of her drink.

"Oh! I know!" Pepper's head snaps up, eyes sparkling with an idea. "Bucky wears black. We should get one of his. You look amazing in black."

Ah, why. Nat squirms in her seat. She is beyond compromised.

"You have a bet then," Nat says as she raises to her feet. "One Bucky hoodie coming right up."

"If you get caught, you have to dance for me," Pepper reminds her.

"And if I don't, you have to wear it for 24 hours without Bucky noticing."

Pepper tilts her head in acknowledgement, that stupidly wonderful smile till on her face.

It's not until she safely returns with her loot that she realizes it wasn't a matter of Nat looking good in it, since Pepper would wear it. Nat shakes her head at herself. Clint would be very proud right now. Where is he by the way, she hasn't seen him in days... suspicious. But well, not her problem.

~

Maybe Pepper was born to be a spy, because she manages to wear that hoodie elegantly and inconspicuously. Nat's really proud of her. Especially since the thing is really large on her, dropping off her shoulders askew, revealing just enough skin to give Nat goosebumps. Her long legs are covered mid-thigh with it, since Pepper likes to wear shorts around the residential area of the tower, hair messily tied and sometimes falling into her coffee cup. Nat keeps catching herself wanting to tuck those strands away. All day, she's looked like the hoodie was all that she was wearing, fresh out of bed.

Nat knocks on Pepper's door when the 24 hours are up and receives permission to enter.

"Congratulations," Nat says.

Pepper lifts her arms, spins once, displaying the hoodie she's still wearing. "And not one stain on it."

Nat hums, letting the smile that pulls at her lips fully form.

"I dare you to take it back now," Pepper says and Nat's eyebrows raise in surprise.

"You really want me to dance that much?"

All the answer she gets is an innocent-like face. Damn, Nat can't say no to this woman. She really really can't.

"Tell you what," she counters, "if you pull this stunt for a month, wear whatever I bring back unnoticed, I'll dance for you."

"Deal," Pepper says with a grin. "Oh, but, um... how about I don't pull the exact same stunt?"

Nat finds herself raising an eyebrow. "Take it or leave it, Potts."

Pepper considers this for a moment, eyes roaming the room, but then she shrugs and plucks at the hoodie. "All right. Come get it."

It's two steps in that Nat tries to stop herself from walking over there, but she really wants to take a piece of clothing off of Pepper. At least once.

She goes close, closer than necessary, her hands sliding up the hem on Pepper's legs, then up her hips. Why is Pepper holding her breath... oh.

Oh.

Nat inhales, too shakily for her liking, but she's allowed to, because Pepper is wearing nothing else underneath. Nat pulls the hoodie up and off while Pepper lifts her arms, then brings them to rest on Nat's shoulders.

"Ok, not exactly the same stunt," Nat rasps, and she's amazed she has a voice because this? This wasn't supposed to be a reality. Nat is not the kind who gets a happy ending.

Yet, Pepper's hand wraps around her chin, her thumb grazes Nat's lower lip, and Nat would melt into the floor right now if not for her training.

"That's what I thought," Pepper whispers. "I want what you want."

The thumping of her own heart against her ribs is distracting Nat from the glint in Pepper's eyes that tells her this is not a joke, not a game. This is real.

"You don't know what I want," she manages.

"I want it," Pepper says.

It bears no argument, so Nat pushes herself up on her toes, touches Pepper's lips with her own.

Finally.

~

Three weeks in, Nat notices it. She's been keeping an eye out on Pepper and Bucky, being there just in case Bucky got really mad. So far, Nat's been bringing back an item every few days, Pepper wears them various amounts of time, an hour here, half a day there, and Nat returns then.

Nobody caught wind of what they are doing.

Except... Bucky seems to like the way his clothes smell after Pepper wears them.

It should upset Nat, really. And no, she is no stranger to jealousy. Even though she keeps her emotions off display, it doesn't mean she's not feeling them. This, however, isn't jealousy. She watches Bucky finding comfort in those pieces of cloth and her insides lurch for him.

Nat's been there. Torn to shreds.

Commanded.

Erased.

She is now what she choses to be. She doesn't remember what inhabited her body, before. It's easier this way, in a manner. Not knowing exactly what she lost.

Bucky, though, knows. He was a good man mangled by the same maliciousness that destroyed whatever Natalia Romanovna was before. And he remembers.

It must be hell.

On some level, it's comforting for Nat to see him take comfort himself in this small thing.

She tells Pepper as much. And Pepper spends all night kissing her face. In the morning, she convinces Nat to try it herself, gently pushing a sweater at her.

~

Their dare is forgotten as they both wear the stolen clothes now.

Nat dances for Pepper most nights when they're both at the tower. Pepper's taking less trips, Nat less missions outside Avenger business. She wears a tracker that connects to Pepper's phone at all times. Which, by the way, explains where Clint's been gone to all this time and why Tony is suddenly in the business of making superspy trackers. But Nat won't complain, especially not when Clint's wearing that silly face Nat's so fond of. She likes seeing her friends happy.

Against all odds, the Avengers are her friends.

Hm, perhaps her interest in Bucky is because of this friendship.

~

"What do we do now?" Pepper asks, a tremble in her voice that Nat feels herself, as she looks at the note Nat found in Bucky's closet.

_'Please. Come out. I need you.'_

"We can't tell him it was a joke," Pepper continues. "Did you see his face this morning? He was smiling and I think Steve cried because of that."

Nat sits next to her on the edge of the bed.

"Would you do it?" she breathes.

"Do what?"

"Be with him."

She knows Pepper is staring at the side of her head, but Nat keeps her eyes firmly ahead. Pepper swallows audibly in the silence.

"I want what you want."

A sound travels out of Nat's throat unabated. Could be a laugh. Felt more like a bark.

"I want to help him," she admits and dares look at Pepper.

As usual, Pepper is open to her as she nods. Nat finds her hand and brings it to her lips. She mouths the words she doesn't dare say aloud against her palm. Pepper knows, though. She knows. Her kiss to Nat's forehead says as much.

"How do you want to do this?" Pepper asks.

"We'll request his trust. If he can give it, then we can return it."

"Trust is very important," Pepper comments. She bites her lip for a moment. "I trust you, you know."

A small huff escapes Nat's lips that stretch into a smile of their own accord. "I know, and I still can't believe it. Or deserve it."

Pepper pokes her side with an eye roll and Nat shakes her head. But then Pepper's hands slide under her t-shirt, and her bra is gone and Pepper has that grin that says she's going to keep Nat up all night.

~

Bucky wakes against soft morning light to the sound of quiet words. There's a hand in his hair, a thigh under his cheek. A knee is pressed between his shoulder blades.

He blinks, looking up. Pepper?

She's talking on the phone, a notepad on the nightstand, a pen in her other hand, distractedly caressing Bucky's hair. He turns slowly, on his back, but Pepper's hand doesn't stop, just changes angle. On his other side, Natasha sits cross legged, a gun dismembered for cleaning on a towel in front of her.

Bucky lifts himself against the headboard.

A coffee mug is thrust in front of him.

Pepper continues her meeting. Natasha finishes assembling the weapon and grabs another one from the floor. When did she brings those in here?

"No more calls at the crack of dawn," Pepper says as she hangs up. "Oh, coffee," and the mug disappears from Bucky's hands. "Nomsberg is a prick."

"Want me to take him out for you?" Natasha asks.

"Mm, no... hey, we could do that laser scare thing on him."

Natasha hums.

"Or his ugly traveling mug that he brings at all the meetings and slurps noisily from it when I speak. He's trying to undermine me and he's not even being subtle about it."

Natasha hums again. "Give me a location a pic of that mug."

Pepper smiles at her phone, cheeks pink.

Bucky's heart gives a sweet pang and he slides himself back down. They're... they're comfortable and everything feels natural. His eyes are falling closed, their warmth seeping into him from both sides.

"Going back to sleep," he mutters.

"There's a good boy," Natasha says, while Pepper's hand returns to scratch the top of his head.

Bucky doesn't tell them this was the best sleep he's had in years. But he feels like they know already.

Lips press on his forehead. Once, twice, and Bucky's heart skips a beat.

~

He takes a deep breath, adjusts for wind velocity, fires.

Target eliminated.

The mug is gone.

Pepper is happy, which means Nat's happy, which means she tells him all the gossip of the tower's superpowered residents in her soft voice, while Pepper sleeps on his shoulder between them.

And it just proves, according to them, that Bucky's skills can be used for good, too.

Yeah, Bucky's good.

~


	19. Thor & Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning everyone.   
> Today the day is bright, with heavy dark clouds at the horizon. Cold pizza for breakfast and hot coffee. I wish I had french toast, though.   
> Many thanks to Kat for the ideas on this one!  
> Enjoy!

Thor chews the deliciousness that is French Toast, regarding Steve thoughtfully. Two things are on his mind today. First, finding an appropriate bribe for Clint to teach him how to make these flavor infused treats. Second, but surely not less important, the recurrence of this.

What did Natasha call it? Moping.

Thor takes another bite just as Steve lets out another silent sigh. He keeps glancing at where Bucky is now drinking his coffee in solitude out on the Tower's deck, surrounded by snowflakes. Ah, snow. They never get it on Asgard. It's one of the reasons he kept coming back to Midgard. But he's getting distracted.

He shakes his head, swallows his mouthful, washes it down with coffee, then strides over to where Steve sits at the counter. He sets a supporting palm over Steve's shoulder.

"What ails you, my friend?" Thor asks. Actually, Thor can imagine what ails Steve, but Natasha said Midgardians fare better when talking about their aches themselves.

Steve sways into the counter with a soft 'ow' and Thor snatches his hand. He scowls at his fingers, not really expecting Steve to answer, so he is surprised when he hears the Captain speak.

"It's just... I don't know how to help him," Steve says, tipping his chin toward his friend. "Back when I was sick and didn't think I'd make it through the night, he'd hold me all night. He had this sweater from his pa, but it felt so good to be surroun--" Steve inhales, stopping himself, and looks down at his hands. "Now I can't even give him a hug," he whispers.

Perhaps it's not only Bucky that needs help right now. Hearing this confession explains quite a few things that had been on Thor's mind. He knows well this feeling of futility. More than once he has tried connecting to his lost brother only to be pushed away. It's not the same situation that Steve is facing, but Thor understands the feeling nonetheless.

"Sorry," Steve's voice interrupts his thoughts. "Forget I said that."

"It is already heard, my friend. Do not worry, I got this camouflaged."

"I got this covered," Steve corrects, then frowns at him with suspicion.

"I got this covered," Thor smiles, the All Speak adjusting in his head.

It's the least he can do. Help Steve so then he can help Bucky, so Thor turns on his heel and walks toward his target.

~

A few minutes later, Steve catches up to him just as he closes the door to Bucky's bedroom behind him. He motions at Steve to follow and leads them both into his room down the hall.

Thor wastes no time, after he carefully locks the door, in pulling off his own sweater and putting on Bucky's hoodie. One that Thor found on the back of a chair in Bucky's room, one that Bucky seems to love wearing.

"What are you--" Steve starts, but understanding dawns on him when Thor opens his arms wide.

With a gasp, he stumbles toward Thor, and Thor has to adjust his stance at the force with which Steve presses himself against him.

They stay there in silence until Steve's shoulders start shaking, knees unsupportive, and Thor lowers them both to the ground.

They stay there until dusk blankets the city and Steve falls asleep.

But in the morning Thor is alone with a _'thank you'_ note, with Bucky's hoodie, its scent mingling with Steve's in his nostrils, and with a peculiar sense of something missing.

~

At first he can't explain to himself why he keeps taking Bucky's clothes and wearing them. But as he watches Bucky inhale Thor's scent off the sleeve of his shirt, his insides flutter and squirm until he's nauseous.

Oh.

That night he spends a long while on the deck of the tower, looking up at the stars. Heimdall is silent in his watch. The Warriors and even Lady Sif are not here to give him guidance. The Bifrost, still damaged, unhelpful, while the Tesseract had been needed elsewhere. Thor chose to stay on Midgard, but sometimes it gets lonely...

A loud clang catches his attention and Thor turns to see Tony scolding the coffee maker.

He has friends here, too, Thor reminds himself. He shakes himself out of the stupor induced by his newly discovered feeling. He is lonely indeed, but in the intimate part of his life. For everything else he has plenty of others to rely on, and this knowledge puts a smile on his face.

"Anthony," Thor says as he walks into the kitchen. "How do you court a man?"

Tony blinks at him blearily a few times before his face breaks in a huge grin.

~

While Tony's advice was very knowledgeable and diverse, Thor can't really apply it to his situation. His skin breaks into goosebumps at the presence behind him, but Thor doesn't move. Bucky's been doing this for a while, inconspicuously sniffing at everyone. Perhaps to try and gauge who is it that's been wearing his clothes.

Maybe Thor should just go and tell him. Or let himself get caught in Bucky's room. But if Bucky declines... Thor delays, lingering in this state of hopefulness.

A few hours later, as midnight approaches, everything changes. There's a knock on his door, revealing Steve on the other side, carrying that hoodie of Bucky's.

"Please," is what Steve says, holding out the black fabric.

Thor takes it mechanically only to press it against his own chest, against Bucky's red sweater that he's wearing right now. Steve's eyes go wide with understanding, but Thor doesn't even think he can begin explaining, so he wraps himself around Steve.

~

In the morning, Steve's still there.

The next evening, Steve comes back.

Everything is silent between them, painfully so, for an entire week, before Steve asks. And Thor tells him the truth.

He's not alone in this tempest of feelings, it seems. Steve is right there with him, and Thor's mouth acts without his input as it presses against Steve, but it's the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

~

 _'Please. Come out. I need you.'_ The note Thor found in Bucky's closet is giving them hope. Steve suggests they make it clear it's not just one person, so they send back a _'Trust us'_ and a blindfold.

~

Thor inhales along with awareness coming to him as morning light falls on his eyelids. The memory of the night makes him smile and a finger soon traces the shape of his lips. Thor opens his eyes to be met with a matching smile on Bucky's face.

"Morning," Bucky says.

"Good morning."

Steve shifts behind Bucky, tightening his grip, while Bucky's arm snakes around Thor to pull him closer. This is amazing, lying here, surrounded by their mixed scents... until. Until!

"Clint's making toast," Steve mumbles at the aroma drifting in from the hallway.

Bucky's the first out of the bed, Steve following closely, and they elbow at each other playfully as they hurry to get dressed. Thor takes advantage and runs ahead. He's the first seated at the kitchen table and the first to get a slice of deliciousness.

Something warm covers his head, a hoodie, and Thor lifts his arms while Steve dresses Thor in it. He bends in to place a kiss to the top of Thor's head while Bucky steals the half eaten slice from his fingers.

"So you guys had a good night," Clint comments.

"You have no idea," Thor says.

Clint grins, Steve chuckles, Bucky smiles, and Thor's heart skips a beat.

~


	20. Tony & Thor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? What is this strangeness. :D (forgive me any potential mistakes, this entire series is not beta'd)

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Tony repeats as he wipes at his cheeks.

"Clearly," Thor says, the sarcastic little shit.

And who the hell let him into the lab? JARVIS is getting a downgrade, Tony promises silently as he scowls at the camera mounted on the wall.

Large hands pry Tony's fingers from the blowing torch he's holding and Thor turns it off before setting at aside.

Tony expects questions, arguments, unsolicited advice, but the only thing that Thor does is sit in a desk chair and poke at a motherboard with interest. This technology must seem antiquated to him. Tony bites his lip. Maybe if he works harder, then the world would be safer. Maybe if cars were smarter, then brainwashed assholes couldn't push them off the road, killing people.

Bitterness chokes Tony as it overflows from his eyes again and it's not pretty. Not pretty at all, but arms are there, holding, squeezing, offering support.

"He killed them," Tony gasps. "He killed my mom and I can't hate him."

Thor says nothing and Tony is grateful.

"I tried," he mumbles. "But he cries when no one sees him. He talks to dad. Every time he's around all I want is to tell him I forgive him, but I can't. Why can't I just hate him?"

"Is that why you took his favorite sweater?" Thor asks.

So he's noticed, too. Tony scrambles for a lie, but he can't find any.

"He likes it when I wear it," he says, "he looks peaceful and I can't hate him." A sob wracks his body and Tony buries his face tighter against Thor's shoulder.

"So you tried to burn it," Thor says.

But Tony's throat is already closing around a heavy lump and all he can do is nod.

It only occurs to him later, on the brink of sleep, as he lies between Thor's warm body and the back of the sofa in the lab, that Thor never knew what Tony's been doing. What Tony's been hiding.

~

"You need to stop running, Anthony," Thor says.

So this is what he'd look like as a king. Face serious, shoulders straight. His voice is giving Tony chills even filtered through the microphone of the suit. When he woke up with the dawn, Tony realized what he'd confessed and chose the adult way out. Escape. Physically. By running. It's why Pepper left him. It's why everybody leaves him.

Now they're all the way around the world, overlooking the Australian landscape.

With a sigh, Tony steps out of his suit, turns to face Thor.

"I love him," he breathes.

It's wrong, it's so wrong and shame swirls though him. This is Bucky, dad's friend, the man who killed mom. The man that came to Tony months ago, not Steve, to confess his sins and put his life into Tony's hands. The man Tony threw at Steve, even though the only thing Bucky asked was not to call Steve. He'll never forget the look on Bucky's face when Steve walked in.

Now they're tiptoeing around each other. Bucky surely hates him, while Tony can't stop loving him. Dad would be proud.

Fingers push at Tony's chin until he can look in the blue of Thor's eyes.

"Love is precious," Thor says.

Tony shakes his head, trying to step away, but Thor's hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Do you remember what you did when I came back broken after my mother's death?"

What does that have to do with this, Tony thinks, a frown forming on his forehead.

"You were very inebriated, but you held me all night. You told me it's better to have known a mother's love than none at all. Do you remember, Anthony?"

Tony swallows. So that wasn't a dream. Wait, if that wasn't... "Did we--"

"Several times," Thor says, face unreadable. Not that Tony was ever good at taking any sort of visual cues.

"I stopped drinking the next day," Tony says, unable to sort through the chaos of his thoughts.

Thor's mouth bends in a grimace this time. "You regretted me that much?"

"No! It was-- I thought-- the other way around," Tony grapples at Thor's arms. "I thought I imagined the whole thing and I didn't want to do something then not remember. I didn't want to do that to you..."

His voice sticks to his throat with the realization that that's exactly what he did to Thor.

But Thor smiles and Tony presses his mouth against it, reckless as he always is. This time, though, he remembers every touch, every heartbeat, every gasp.

~

Tony doesn't know what he did to deserve Thor. He's understanding and accepting and even helps Tony steal Bucky's clothes.

Helps Tony accept himself.

~

_'Please. Come out. I need you.'_

Tony's fingers shake as he reads the note. He knew it was all too good to last. He glances over at Thor as he sits by the window, face closed off once again. A pang runs through his belly, strong enough to make him clutch at his middle, at the thought of leaving Thor. Yet, Bucky's calling... no.

Tony can't do this to Thor, not when Thor patiently pulled Tony out of his own head, helped him understand the conflict inside, caressed him through the nightmare riddled nights, and gave him the support he needed. 

Tony loves Thor as well.

So he drops the note and walks over until he can kneel in front of Thor. "I choose you," he rasps.

Thor's face crumbles with relief, his eyes wet suddenly, as he cups Tony's cheeks with his large hands, and Tony clutches at his knees. His kiss is hard, demanding, much more than it ever has been, and Tony gets it, suddenly. Thor's been waiting.

~

"What if you don't have to choose?" Thor asks before refilling their coffee mugs.

"What do you mean?" Tony returns, but by the time the words are out of his mouth he knows exactly what Thor is saying.

"I mean," Thor leans closer, "that I choose you as well, but maybe Bucky will accept both of us choosing him in turn."

Tony's heart freezes in his chest, he chokes, and cries, and laughs, and blabbers. Then he says 'yes' and 'please' and cries some more.

~

Two hands, very different hands, snatch the tools from Tony's fingers. Dark long hair falls on his left shoulder while blond strands tickle the right side of his face.

"How do you two keep getting in here?" Tony asks, but lefts himself be pried away from his workbench.

"JARVIS lets us in," Bucky says, his metal hand already snaking under Tony's t-shirt.

"He's always done so," Thor adds, pushing his fingers under the waistband of Tony's sweats over his hip.

"Traitor," Tony murmurs, unable to stop his smile, and closes his eyes.

He goes boneless in their arms, he always does, because next come caresses, gentle and warm until Tony sleeps, forgetting about shame and guilt. Sometimes, mom comes to him in his dreams, tells him she's happy that he's happy. So every morning, Tony makes it a point to lose a little of the burden, kiss his dears, and enjoy their love.

~


	21. Steve & Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smirk*  
> (btw, if you're getting notifications on this one, just know that today there are three new chapters added: 19, 20, and 21. enjoy!)

"He doesn't remember us together," Steve says as he takes a swig of the hard Asgardian liquor Thor so helpfully supplied.

"He doesn't remember me at all," Nat echoes.

She told him, when Bucky first came to the tower, about knowing him long ago, when the wipes didn't erase him completely yet, when he wasn't as mindlessly obedient. 

He passes the bottle. In this world, the three of them are different. Steve less tortured than the other two, but still with much more in common with Nat and Buck than everyone else. Don't get him wrong, he loves where he is right now, surrounded by friends. But it doesn't erase the need to do this once in a while, get smashed with Nat while bemoaning their troubles.

"I still love him," Steve adds for good measure, just in case she didn't figure it out already.

"Me too," comes back and Steve halts. 

"Did you two--" he starts, waving a hand. 

She nods. So... they have even more in common than he thought. His head swims with images of Nat and Bucky together, various things passing though him, in a mix of jealousy and admiration and hurt and compassion.

His tongue is heavy.

The floor is fuzzy under him. Nat's sitting too far away in the armchair and Steve scoots closer until he can rest his chin on her knee. Nat's fingers lift it and she tips the bottle against his lips. The liquid burns as it travels through his throat. 

One moment she's petting his head, the next Steve's face is between her legs and all he can think about later is how she'll have rug burns on her back in the morning.

~

They don't talk about it. 

Steve keeps finding himself in her room. They're sober and have no excuse, but that doesn't stop them from not talking about it.

Until, that is, Steve slips into her room a lot later than usual, hair still dripping wet after the shower he took when he returned from his mission. His entire body hurts, battered and bruised, and all he wants is comfort. He's willing to do the sex bit first, if it means sleeping here.

But she's wearing Bucky's hoodie as she lays on the bed, and--

Steve swallows. They must have gotten together while he was gone. He turns on his heel.

"JARVIS, lock the door," Nat says and Steve dares look at her. 

She's sitting up on the mattress now, a hand extended.

He takes it.

~

They talk about it. They pour every ounce of affection they have for Bucky onto each other, wearing Bucky's clothes, drowning in his scent. And it's not that they don't have an attachment to each other, a deep one at that. It's not that Steve doesn't love her, but there's always this void in between. 

~

Steve can't stop the smirk on his lips as he watches Bucky inhale with his nose pushed against the sleeve of his hoodie. It gives him hope that maybe Bucky might... Nat agrees with him, yet he's not sure this won't lead to heartbreak. 

Bucky notices him looking and snatches his hand away. 

"Detergent that nice?" he asks because he can't stop himself.

It earns him an eye roll and silence, just as usual. Buck rarely talks to him. Rarely talks to anyone and that smarts inside Steve's chest. He watches Bucky as he stands up from his armchair and walks away, but then he turns around, comes back and sits next to Steve.

"Someone's been wearing my clothes," he says. 

And Steve's heart does somersaults in his chest. "Who?" he asks, careful to keep his voice level.

"I don't know," Bucky says, frowning and staring somewhere ahead. "It's two of them."

Steve swallows. Does he tell Bucky? But he doesn't have time to ponder this longer, because Bucky turns to him, lips pressed thin. 

"How do I get them to reveal themselves?"

"Why?" Steve breathes.

"I, uh," Bucky looks down at his own hands. "I want, I want to have the real thing, not just scent on clothes."

Oh. Steve's face breaks into a smile. Not only because Bucky wants them back, but because Bucky's asking Steve for help. 

~

Steve watches the side of Nat's head as they stand at the end of the corridor. Just a few steps away, Bucky's door wait for them. 

"You know I love you, too, right?" he says.

Her fingers twitch where they're wrapped around his. She didn't, then. Well, now she knows.

"Shut up, Rogers."

Steve grins. Inhales. Revels in the thundering of his heart, in tandem with Nat's rabbiting pulse under his thumb as it presses on her wrist.

It's time to start anew.

~


	22. Nick & Natasha

Nick draws air, then exhales slowly, considering the situation. The guilty look on Tasha's face is not fitting. Wrong.

"How long have we known each other?" he asks.

Her fingers clutch at the hoodie even tighter.

"Close to fifty," she breathes.

"Been together for over thirty of those," Nick adds. "If you think I'd be upset about this, you're wrong."

She looks away. Nick's always known, so this here? This is no surprise. She was never completely his and he's accepted that before he jumped in her bed all those years ago. Since then, they've both grown, evolved, and their relationship is not something that will be ended by Tasha's first love suddenly coming back from the grave.

"I know you," Nick says. "I know us. This doesn't change anything."

Tasha looks at him, then, slow and calculating. "It changes everything."

"How?"

"I want him back," she says as she stands. "I'm wearing his stupid clothes because he doesn't remember me. I'm a child and I want him back," she shoves the hoodie at Nick and he takes it.

"See, I knew you never stopped loving him. No matter how many times you denied it, I knew you were capable of love, dear."

"Don't you feel betrayed?"

Nick smiles. "No," he says. "Because you love me, too. Otherwise, you wouldn't be this upset right now."

Tasha glares at him. Ok, sore spot found. It warms Nick's insides, bringing back that heady rush of feelings he used to adore when he was younger. He shrugs his coat off and it falls on the ground with a soft thud. Next, he removes his shirt, then pulls Bucky's hoodie on. It smells like Tasha, partly.

"This changes nothing," he repeats, extending a hand.

A blink, another. And her face twists in shock when realization dawns. Nick's rarely seen her this open.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, her voice trembling. "I never gave you anything."

Nick rolls his eyes. "Then give me this."

She considers it for long moments and Nick refuses to squirm. He's seventy two, she's eighty four, and the world doesn't know how long they've been alive. For half a century they only had each other. Now there's Rogers and Barnes in the enhanced club, and he likes that Tasha has more people to relate to. More than she related to Nick, really, because Nick ages, slowly but surely, while the other three don't seem to. Well, he supposes time will tell.

Finally, she moves. Her fingers unbutton the top of her pajamas, her pants slide to the floor. Nick shakes his head with a smile.

"Just say it," he urges as he takes a step closer. He lets his hand run down her front. "Say it, Tasha, come on."

His fingers slip between her legs. She swallows, bites her lip, and looks up at him with wide eyes. Oh, it's not going to work, this fake innocence. Nick smirks and it makes her step back. He follows, step by tiny step, never really letting go of her, until her back hits a wall and Nick's fingers sink into her.

He lets his forehead rest on the wall next to her, his lips close to her ear. "Please."

She says it in Russian while her fingers unbuckle his belt. She says it again when Nick slides in, and again as she comes. She utters those words while he spoons behind her, while she hugs the hoodie to her chest.

_"I love both of you."_

~

Nick watches Bucky from across the room. He's at the Tower again under the guise of debriefing, but all he does is help Tasha steal the supersoldier's clothes and play chess with Barton. Tony avoids him like the plague when he isn't trying to annoy Nick. The kid's relentless, Nick'll give him that.

But, back to Bucky. James Barnes. Nick's seen what Red Room did to Tasha. It took her decades to accept herself and her past. He wonders how long it will take Bucky. Perhaps he'll never-- Nick shakes his head. They can do something now, something to help him. Last night Tasha came back with a note that Bucky left for the thieves of his clothes, urging them to reveals themselves. And now Nick has to decide. Tasha can do this alone, or Nick can jump into this with her. He's offered his help, yes, but now that it's about to be a reality, the decision cannot be taken lightly. Three lives are at stake.

He takes a deep breath before making his way to where Bucky sits in an armchair, a book in his hand. He's wrapped in his favorite hoodie, the one that Tasha likes most, with his nose pushed under the hem. Nick smiles to himself as he takes the other armchair.

Silence stretches not uncomfortable between them while Nick checks his emails on his tablet.

"Are you here to evaluate me?" Bucky asks after a while, without looking up.

"In a way," Nick replies.

The seconds are quiet again and they trick slowly, turning into minutes. Bucky closes the book.

"Then evaluate."

Nick turns off his tablet. "I already did," he says. He's been observing. Bucky's posture, his microexpressions, the rhythm of his breaths, the twitch of his fingers where they're hooked into the fabric of his sleeves, flesh and metal alike. Bucky is lonely and Nick wants to wrap himself around him right now.

Yes. He can do this. He wants to do this. Maybe he'll even fall in love again.

Bucky tuts, nostrils flaring, before he mutters in Russian, something along the lines of not being a museum piece to be stared at like a curiosity. It puts a smile on Nick's lips.

"Of course you aren't," he says as he stands.

There's things to set in motion and he goes to find Tasha. Bucky may not remember her, but he remembers being human and that's enough. _He can feel._

~

They ask for trust, a rare and precious thing in the world of spies and assassins. Nick's heart skips a beat when it's given freely, the sensor embedded in the blindfold they left for Bucky letting them know he's wearing it.

~

Nick can't sleep, but that's ok. Tasha can't, either. Between them, Bucky rests and Nick pushes the hair out of his face, careful not to wake him.

"It's not enough," Tasha whispers.

"What isn't?" he asks, just as quietly.

"To love you. Everything you did for me, and now this. Not enough, I have to--"

Nick catches her hand where it rests on Bucky's hip over the comforter, cutting her off. Everything he did was because he loves her, a very selfish reason. "It's not a competition."

"Still."

"You really won't let this go, will you?"

She raises and eyebrow and Nick sighs. "Fine," he says, going through his options. Ah, he's got one. A chance to shock Stark and then pretend like nothing happened, his favorite game. It also gives him an opportunity to snark at people. "Convince Barton to sit in my lap at lunch. Or dinner."

"You have that bet with him," Tasha comments. Of course, Barton will lose if he does that, and it means he'll have to prance around for a full day in his old circus costume. "For fuck's sake, Nick," Tasha rolls her eyes, "couldn't you have picked something easier? Like procreating?"

Nick snickers and brings her hand to his lips. Bucky squirms between them, and Nick bends closer to kiss his temple as well.

Tasha's eyes are too bright, even in the low light.

"Clint's going to kill me," she whispers.

Nick grins.

~


	23. Natasha & Wanda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Tuesday angst before going to work because my brain is stupid and can't deal with adulting. Healing them heals me.   
> Enjoy!

"Can I look in your head?" Wanda asks Clint before taking another bite of her slice of greasy pizza.

Clint stops chewing and swallows, painfully so, and Natasha grimaces. Internally. But it seems like Wanda picks up on the cue herself, without Clint having to say no.

"Sorry," she says.

"Why would you want that?" Clint asks.

Wanda sets her slice down and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Just wanted to know what it did to you. The scepter."

Clint frowns and Tasha can already see where this is going.

"They used it to make me, so..." Wanda trails off, picking at the napkin on the coffee table between them.

She looks--the way she looks at her own hand twists something in Natasha's gut. The need to confirm one's existence, not as merely an object to be toyed with, but a real person, human, belonging to other similar humans--

"You can look in mine," she says, startling the other two.

Clint did that for her long ago. Not exactly as invasive as she's inviting Wanda to do, but enough to calm that pain. Enough.

"But you won't like what you see."

Wanda lounges with enough force to knock Tasha over where she's sitting on the floor, but she lets Wanda have her hug. Clint smirks, Natasha flips him off, but when his face turns to concern, she waves her hand. It will be fine, she can do this.

~

Wanda is white as a sheet when she finishes digging through Natasha's memories and Natasha thinks she's not going to speak to her again. But then the hands come back to her temples, red flows freely, and--

Natasha drowns.

The events might be different, but their pains are similar.

And Tasha finds herself unable to part from Wanda. Tony even jokes about it, until Clint replaces all his coffee with decaf. Tasha appreciates his sacrifice on this one.

~

"I want to see inside his head," Wanda says, tipping her chin at Barnes.

He's been around for the past few weeks, looking like a ghost, feeling like a specter. He emanates the same sort of hurt that Wanda does, and it explains why Wanda's drawn to him.

"Don't," is what Natasha tells her.

~

"Is that Bucky's hoodie?"

Wanda stares at the fabric on her chest, fingers caressing it briefly, before she looks up at Natasha.

"You said I can't look," she breathes.

"Not without his permission, no."

Wanda swallows, then frowns, gaze shifting somewhere in the spec between them. "I think he had it worse than you and me combined."

Most likely. But what can she add to that? "You can't take his clothes either," she says instead.

Wanda smiles, small and frail. "I don't think he minds it."

~

Observation is the most useful skill to have when facing unknown situations. For once, though, Natasha wishes she didn't have it, because what she observes is waking something ugly inside of her.

Bucky likes the way his clothes smell after Wanda wears them and that won't do.

Wanda is hers.

Which is the wrong thing to let unravel inside herself, Wanda is her own person, not property.

The training staff hits Natasha in the upper arm hard enough to send her sprawling to the floor.

"You're distracted," Clint says as he extends a hand to help her up.

Natasha sighs and tells him her predicament. They're sitting on the gym mats, tired and chilly, but Clint's patient and lets her tread through dangerous thoughts without judgment.

"Why don't you wear his clothes, too?" Clint suggests an hour later. "Or offer Wanda yours."

~

It works.

Wearing Bucky's stolen clothes works and Natasha's chest is now filled with belonging instead of gritty jealousy. Wanda figured it out, Natasha's sure of it, but she isn't saying anything. Instead, just smiles knowingly.

Until, that is, Natasha gives in and slips into Wanda's room in the middle of the night.

Her last defenses crumble when Wanda whispers "finally."

Her lips are soft, her touch gentle. Natasha drowns.

~

"This is either the best present or the worst," Wanda comments as she flips the note around, one from Bucky that asks for the thieves of his clothes to reveal themselves.

"Best," Natasha says and hands over the chocolate covered wooden spoon she's used.

It's Wanda's birthday, her 24th, and Tasha's making her an old school chocolate cake. The Sokovian recipe is not that different from the Russian one she learned long ago.

"We'll find out, and if it doesn't work out, I'll make it up to you," Tasha promises.

Wanda leans closer over the counter. "How?"

"I'll train you."

"Really?" The grin on Wanda's face is the best and Natasha hums with a nod, unable to stop her own smile from forming.

Bucky might react badly when he finds out who they are, but then again he might not. Something stirs in Natasha, monumentally soothing. Hope.

~

Wanda still sleeps, cradled between Bucky's arms, but him and Tasha have been awake for a while now.

"Can't believe it's been almost a year already," Bucky whispers.

Natasha hums from where she's leaning on his shoulder, the metal cool against her temple.

"You think she still wants to see inside my head?"

With a blink, she straightens. "Wanda," Tasha says, shaking her quickly, "wake up. He's ready."

It's a lot of hurt to absorb from Bucky as they take his pain and give him theirs. Between the three of them, it's an easier burden to carry together than alone.

Tasha drowns, but that's fine. She's not drowning alone.

~


	24. Sam & Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone  
> Remember to re-read the first chapter! :)  
> Enjoy.

Sometimes, when Sam looks at Bucky, he is reminded of Riley. Not because they look alike, or behave the same way, or have similar personalities. No, they couldn't be more different. Except... they both fell to their deaths, one in a fiery pit and the other in an icy ravine.

There are moments when Sam wakes shaking in the middle of the night, throat dry with the taste of lingering ashes, skin cold and sweaty, body taught with hurt. In the dark he feels lost, sinking deeper into the nightmare, and his fingers scramble for it.

The hoodie.

It's worn and soft, tethering Sam to the present.

It's warm and gentle, wrapping itself like missing limbs around Sam's trembling frame.

Sam can't explain it to himself, why he does it. Why he keeps stealing Bucky's hoodies, why he lays them carefully on the other side of the bed, why they soothe him after night terrors.

But it's a thing that happens. It's been almost a year since he jumped out of a crumbling building, since his wings were ripped off his back, since all of that violence reared its head again. Sam has to take his time to let the reopened wound scab over again. Being in this new Avenger facility helps. They've been here for a while now, since they caught up with Bucky after only a few months of running after him, and Sam isn't entirely sure that Bucky didn't let himself be found.

Everything smells like metal and cement here, fresh. It's a good thing, feels like a clean slate. He isn't even holding a grudge for having the steering wheel ripped out of his hands anymore. Ok, maybe just a little one, but most his anger fizzled out when he saw Bucky waking from a nightmare one night right after he and Steve and Sam arrived here.

Steve doesn't get nightmares. He drowns in the what-ifs, could've-beens, and worries while wide awake. It's not pretty, to see him lose it in the gym, but it's not the same thing as jolting to awareness confused and scared and hurt.

So Sam unconsciously took it upon himself, in those early weeks, to tend to Bucky. He was miffed with himself when he figured out what he was doing. Oh boy, he even snapped at others a few times. Combine that with the strain of being back in the fight littering Sam's rest with the horrors of the past once again, and he wasn't very pleasant to be around. The nightmares have tapered off since then, but they still shake Sam awake at least once a week. 

He hugs the hoodie to his chest, inhales, and focuses his mind on that time he saw Bucky doing the same.

Sam was angry and exhausted, Bucky had a new hoodie that Steve had given him. So Sam stole it, wore it, returned it, expecting for some miraculous satisfaction at his small revenge.

Everything changed when Bucky inhaled Sam's scent from its sleeve.

Changed when his eyes watered over and he sniffled where he thought nobody could see him, sitting way back behind everyone else while the general attention was caught by a movie. Or was it a documentary? Sam can't remember because Bucky's face had filled his mind that evening.

~

Bucky's fingers slip from Sam's and he falls toward the flames. Sam dives in, to catch, but he's yanked back. A wing flies freely through the air and now Sam's spinning downward, closer and closer and--

His gasp is half shouted as the ground tries to grab him. He fights until the earth sounds like Steve.

But it's not enough and Sam pats the bed for it. Where is it?

The hoodie, his hoodie. Sam needs it.

No, not yours, he wants his.

Wants Bucky.

~

Sam eyes Steve warily and gets the same frowny stare back that he's been receiving for the past few days. Their mission is over and they're finally on their way back to the facility.

Now Steve knows his secret. Sam entertains running for a while, until he is met with Bucky's welcoming smirk.

Yeah, he can't. Not anymore, he's too attached already.

~

It's lunch and nobody's around except for Sam and Bucky, so Sam orders pizza with a side of tiramisu. The space is mostly quiet when they're alone together, not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either.

A week and a half has passed since they've been back and Steve has barely said two words to him.

"Steve really hates this," Bucky breaks the silence, pointing with his teaspoon at the cake in front of him.

"Steve really hates many things," Sam comments, a little too bitterly.

"Nah," Bucky says, then contemplates the table top for a while.

Sam can't stop looking at his eyelashes. Want to press his lips against his skin. Right, this is why he can't relax around Bucky. He might blurt something.

"But it does seem something crawled up his ass lately," Bucky mutters, then looks up with a small frown. "It reminds me--" he starts, then swallows. "I've been remembering."

With a twitch of his eyebrows, Sam nods slowly. Bucky isn't really forthcoming, with anyone, so this is surprising. He hums, questioning, but low enough that Bucky can ignore it if he wants.

"Yeah," Bucky says. "He does this when he's sweet on someone that he has no chance of getting. Should've seen the looks he gave Howard back in the day." He huffs a small laugh, without his mouth moving much from its impassive set, but it warms Sam nonetheless. "Thought he was gonna snap his neck clean off this one time, before Peggy shot at him and got his head straight. Now he's giving me that jealous glare," Bucky grumbles, looks away. "Like I have a say in who might--"

He stops with an inhale, setting his teaspoon down forcefully.

"Who the fuck would want me anyway," Bucky grits as he stands up, before walking out.

And Sam.

Sam is frozen, heart thumping in his chest, with realization.

~

This can't go on, it's affecting them in the field. Natasha lectured them for an entire hour for the last debacle. It must be serious if it came to that. She's more the type to strike silently. Add the disappointed look Rhodes gave them, and Sam needs to solve this tension before someone gets killed.

So here he is, standing in Steve's bedroom, fully intent on talking this out. But no, it can never be this easy, can it, because Steve is wearing Bucky's hoodie now, the same one Sam had last night then returned in the morning. He thought Steve had a thing for him, but it looks like he got it all wrong. Steve shifts, the hoodie flapping open to reveal Sam's favorite t-shirt underneath, the one he thought he misplaced.

Oh, he got it even more wrong. It feels... surreal.

"I can explain," Steve says, a hand raised in front of him and eyes searching for an escape.

Hah, fat chances of that, and Sam widens his stance and crosses his arms where he blocks the exit. He's waiting for some bullshit avoidance speech, when Steve does the impossible, lifting his chin and speaking too clearly to be misunderstood.

"I love you."

It's so sudden, that Sam reels back, hitting the door and Steve makes an aborted motion.

"I know, I know," he says, quickly. "I'm sorry. Look, I won't do anything, you don't have to worry about it."

What? Sam frowns.

"I'm not gonna stand in your way," Steve continues, "just know that I want you to be happy. I love you both too much to--" He inhales, and it's shaky, visible even from where Sam's standing. "I know I've been an ass lately, but it will pass. I'll get over it, I promise."

Sam's jaw hangs open and he has to force himself to close it.

What the actual fuck. The ever self-sacrificing moron. The entire thing makes his chest constrict, for Steve--

Ok, wait. For? For Steve?

So that's why Steve being seemingly mad at him hurt more necessary. Sam inhales and exhales, already resigned, while Steve stands there, eyes too wide, body too tense.

"Is Bucky capable of this," Sam asks, waving a pointing finger at Steve, "multilateral love?"

Steve startles. "Yes," he says, then rummages in his pants pocket, pulls out a note. "He left this for us a few days ago in his closet, didn't know how to tell you," he whispers, extending the piece of paper.

Sam's steps are a little more wary than he wants them, but to his defense, he did just decide to try and convince two supersoldiers to start a three sided relationship with him.

The note only says _'Please. Come out. I need you.'_ No clue regarding singular or plural.

"How do you know this is for us and not just you or me?"

"I overheard him complain to JARVIS once," Steve says, pointing at the ceiling. "And I convinced JARVIS to keep our secret."

He says 'our' so easily and Sam's heart gives a pang. So this is what the old blood pump wants, eh? Who is Sam to argue, then?

"Ok," he says.

Seconds trick in silence and Steve blinks at every two of those. "Ok?" he finally asks.

"Yes," Sam says, placing the note on the dresser to the side before walking closer. "Love me. Love him. Let's both love him."

Steve shakes his head once as if to clear his perception. It makes Sam laugh. He is close enough to place his hands on Steve's hips, under the hoodie, under the t-shirt, and as he does so, he watches as comprehension settles over Steve face until wonder takes the place of confusion.

~

"And then what did he do?" Bucky asks from where he's lying with his head on Steve's thigh while Steve leans against the headboard.

Sam holds his breath, watching them from the doorway, unseen. He's just returned from a solo mission and sneaked into their shared rooms expecting the other two to be asleep. Sounds like one of them had a rough night, because Steve's retelling how he and Sam got together.

"He said," Steve whispers with a chuckle, "close your mouth Steven, drooling is not sexy."

Bucky laughs, but it's wet and followed by a sniffle. So it was him and Sam's heart skips a beat.

"He didn't say that," Bucky says.

"Of course he didn't," Steve confirms as Sam comes closer. He waves silently, Sam waves back. "He held me for a long time."

"And you didn't kiss," Bucky continues.

"Nope," Steve shakes his head. "We wanted to kiss you first."

Sam drops his gear on the floor. By now Bucky's must've heard him so he shucks off his uniform as fast as he can before sliding in bed on Steve's other side, head on Steve's free thigh next to Bucky. He lets himself smile at the memory of that morning, almost six months ago, when Sam woke up with Bucky between him and Steve.

"Why would you do that?" Bucky breathes. He already knows the answer, but he always asks.

"Because," Sam tells him, "we the fuck would want you."

It never fails to redden Bucky's cheeks and Sam grins.

He still needs the hoodies. Only now they come with the warmth of bodies and the gentleness of touches.

With kisses. Hugs. Understanding. Did he mention the kisses? Also, breakfast. As soon as he wakes in their arms.

~

Sometimes, when Sam looks at Bucky, he is reminded of Riley. Not how he died, not anymore. But how he loved.

With calmness.

~


	25. Pepper & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the talk with sanders. *slides cookie over*

"I don't even understand what that's supposed to be," Jim says, moving his hand in a circular motion as he watches Tony and Steve bickering on the balcony of the penthouse. "But Tony seems happier. Sleeps more, too, doesn't he?"

Next to him Pepper shrugs delicately as she sips from her mug. "He does spend more time in the bedroom," she says, an amused smile on her lips.

Jim rolls his eyes, but before he can reply, Tony strolls back in with Steve on his heels.

"Rhodey, Rhodes," he says in that tone that Jim knows all too well, "can we do the thing tomorrow?"

"Sure," Jim returns, already resigned. He's happy Tony has other priorities, which are making Tony happy, which is good, but this is the fifth time Tony's postponing their thing. It's supposed to be lunch and suit training and _fun_.

Steve says hello and bye, leaving behind a sort of silence that somehow feels a little heavier than Jim would like. He looks at Pepper and finds himself studied.

"What."

Pepper shrugs again and continues drinking her tea.

~

Jim sprained his ankle and now he's trying to stave off the boredom by staring at the ceiling. It's not working. He's been at the tower for only a few days and he's already out of things to do. Downtime does not agree with him, especially since Tony's busy with other things. Sure, he could say 'fuck it' and insist to go back in the field because he has the suit after all, but that sprain came over an older injury and the doc warned that if he doesn't take it easy, he'll make it worse in the long run. Jim's not that young anymore.

There's a knock on the door, followed by Pepper's immediate entry, and two staffers that bring him his clean clothes. Before Jim can say anything, his room is tidied and he's left there with Pepper, who's standing in her business attire, tablet in hand.

"Good morning, James."

She hands him over a cup of coffee, then points to a stack of movies on the dresser.

"I've selected your favorites, but those are according to JARVIS, so if we were wrong, let me know. I've scheduled your doctor's appointment here instead of the hospital to make transportation easier. There are three therapists coming in later today that you can choose from to start PT once the doc okays it. Have a good day."

And she's gone.

~

So... Jim's not the only one Pepper's been motherhenning. Jim watches from his place at the kitchen table as Pepper slices Clint's food, then brings him coffee. Clint looks so miserable, that it makes Jim hurt in sympathy, especially when Clint fumbles with the fork. His hands are both wrapped, wrists in soft casts, from catching a hot piece of metal in yesterday's fight. He saved a kid in the process, his hands will heal, but Clint's a guy who uses his hands a lot, so this makes his ordeal worse.

Pepper, though, she doesn't look so well. Jim remembers when Tony hired her. She used to be detached, almost cold. But Jim learned in time that's not the case, not at all. Pepper cares.

~

Being stuck here amongst the benched people has given Jim new insight into their lives. Today's just him, Clint, and Barnes around. Clint's asleep in a chair in the kitchen, Barnes is sitting on the balcony reading. Well, another James. Bucky. Jim kinda feels a sort of implicit camaraderie at sharing the name.

Bucky is sad, even when he's glaring. He shivers, sometimes, short and almost unnoticeable, but Jim sees it anyway. Hollowness, that's what Bucky's body language says.

So Tony's busy with Steve, which makes Steve busy with Tony. Pepper has transmuted her attention on Clint and Jim, while Bucky's lonely. Jim doesn't need it, so maybe he can turn Pepper toward Bucky instead. Clint sure seems to revel in her delicate care giving, soft and non-intrusive. He thinks Bucky would like it, too.

And this morning his clothes got mixed with Clint and Bucky's.

Huh.

Jim grins.

~

It takes less than five minutes to convince Clint to steal Bucky's hoodie. Pepper takes a little longer, but not by much, and for the next couple of weeks Jim watches as Pepper wears Clint's clothes and Clint wears Bucky's. There's satisfaction spreading through all three.

Time for the next step, then. He enlists JARVIS' help and arranges for Clint to catch Pepper in his room.

Jim waits in one of the auxiliary control rooms all night, chewing at the end of his pencil. JARVIS offers several times to turn on the audio in the room, but Jim refuses. He might meddle, but he doesn't want to snoop.

~

Yawning in his fist, Jim makes his slow wobbly way in the kitchen to find Bucky pleading with the coffee machine. Jim pushes buttons for him and soon they're sitting at the table, steaming mugs between them. Jim yawns again and Bucky yawns and they both groan.

"Long night?" he asks.

Bucky shrugs his flesh shoulder, looking out the window. Yeah. Jim knows that feeling. The minutes stretch in silence while Jim pokes at his tablet. Across from him, Bucky's sleeve is drawn over his hand, his nose pushed into the material—oh, he likes the smell. Jim stifles his smile.

It's been another week since he made Clint and Pepper aware of each other. The new thing between them is not visible, not unless one knows what to look for. Natasha's certainly noticed and Jim vaguely wonders if she knows it's his doing. In any case, it's working. There's only one last thing to do.

~

Jim comes clean. Pepper glares, arms crossed, while Clint's watching him from across the table, chin in hands, forehead creased with confusion.

"Look," Jim says, "you two are happy, aren't you?"

"We are," Clint says warily, eyes shifting between Pepper and Jim.

It sounds almost like a question and that makes Pepper relax a little. She sits next to Clint, leaning into him. "We are," she says. "But what gives you the right to set us up?"

"I didn't set you up," Jim raises his hands in defense. "I gave you what you needed, and now Bucky needs you, too."

Pepper and Clint look at each other, a whole conversation happening silently in front of Jim. It just proves him right, they're good for each other. Clint's a worse disaster than Tony, Bucky needs a kindred spirit, Pepper likes to take care of people. Clint kisses Pepper's forehead, wrapping an arm around her, and she buries her face against his neck.

"What do we need to do?" Clint asks Jim.

"I have a plan," Jim says.

~

"Here," Bucky tells Jim two months later, handing over a battered box wrapped in newspaper.

"What's this for?"

Bucky gestures to where Clint and Pepper are talking across the room. "They told me what you did. Thank you."

Jim grins and Bucky grins. In the box there's a mug, engraved on the side with _'World's #1 friend.'_

"So," Natasha's voice pops up next to him after Bucky walks away.

"Don't start."

"I won't," she says mildly. "But we're going to dinner and you're telling me all about this."

"Really."

Natasha smirks. Jim's content, wonderfully so.

~


	26. Rhodey & Pepper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is smaller and different. Just wanted to start the week off with something nice and hopeful and a reason to smile, so here it is. Enjoy!

Tony sets down the soldering iron while the circuit board on the table is cooling off. He watches it through the magnifying glass, planning on the next step, then spares a glance at Rhodey who's focused on rewiring. Fixing some broken insulation now by the looks of it.

"So how'd you end up together?" he asks, leaning back.

"Long story," Rhodey says without looking up.

Tony raises his eyebrows at Pepper.

"Very long," she says from her perch on the counter.

She takes another sip of her drink, one shoe dangling off her toes, the other already on the floor. She looks tired, but not bone deep exhausted, like she used to be. No, this is just Pepper being Pepper at the end of a long day. Tony swallows. He's happy she's happy. Too bad it wasn't him to give her that, but now they both have more suited people in their lives.

Anyway, he's also super curious.

"I've got time," he smirks and interlocks his fingers behind his own neck.

"Tony," Rhodey warns.

"Aw, come on," he whines, but goes back to the board.

It's only a couple of minutes later that Pepper takes mercy on him and starts talking.

"I bought Jim a hoodie, but it got delivered to the wrong James. When I went to get it back, it was already worn."

Tony raises an eyebrow at Rhodey who smirks, still engrossed in his task.

"So Jim kept sharing the hoodie with his namesake without Bucky figuring it out it was him," Pepper continues.

"I doubt Barnes was so oblivious," Tony comments. That earns him a glare, but he ignores it. "And then what happened?"

"Then," Pepper says after she downs her drink, "I ended up in the hoodie."

"How'd you do that?"

"I stole it because the assholes were pining after each other and Jim was being stubborn about the whole thing."

"But," Rhodey says, finally lifting his head, "she couldn't deprive Buck of his favorite thing ever."

"We had a long argument about things," Pepper adds, "and instead of being adults we started stealing all of Bucky's clothes."

Tony blinks, looking at each of them in turn. He shakes his head, snorting, then finishes the board.

"Here," he hands it over to Rhodey, who snatches it and carefully slots it in its socket before clicking the metal plates back in their place.

The arm whirs to life and Bucky allows it to calibrate before jumping off the counter.

"It's all true," he tells Tony. He leans closer to whisper while Rhodey's talking to Pepper. "I didn't see it 'cos I didn't think anyone would love me like that. But you know how that goes, don't you."

Tony rolls his eyes. "You and birdbrain should stop gossiping like teenagers."

"Why," Bucky grins, "embarrassed?"

"Oh, please don't dare him," Pepper pops up next to them, but Rhodey wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her with him toward the door.

"Hey, Tony," Bucky calls and Tony raises an eyebrow. "Thanks," he says, waving with his right hand at his left arm, then pointing over his shoulder where Pepper and Rhodey are laughing.

"Yeah," Tony smiles.

He unzips his own hoodie, peering at the purple underneath. Yeah.

~


	27. Scott & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone  
> Here are some fumbling boys because this week is being bleh at work and I need the fluff. So everyone should have some fluff.  
> *sips coffee*  
> Enjoy o/

Bucky falls asleep sated and content, but expecting to wake up alone. So when light falls onto his closed eyelids, and there are still two bodies around him, Bucky takes a deep breath. He's going to know, finally. Be able to love them back. His exhale is slow and shaky, as his eyelids flutter open, and he's ready.

Bucky's ready to live...

...and all he can see is hair. Sandy blond in messy tufts, probably made by Bucky's own hands. Warmth shifts behind him while the one in his arms mumbles, sniffles, mumbles again, "hey, that's my pizza, bad dog."

There's a soft snore coming from the other side of the bed, followed quickly by "can't fit through that hole."

Bucky snorts. It's loud and he freezes, but nothing disturbs the dreams of the other two. He carefully turns until he's on his back, sneaks his limbs up, the slides higher against the headboard. Clint sleeps on his right, Scott on his left.

Huh.

Bucky gently cups the back of Clint's head, pets it slowly. It makes sense Clint was one of them. He's been coercing Bucky into sniping matches and sparring, never pushing though, never asking about things Bucky can't answer. Steve's told him what happened to Clint before the Chitauri invasion. With a sigh, he turns his attention to his left.

Scott sleeps with his mouth open, a leg dangling off the side of the bed. He's quiet usually, quieter than people perceive him to be. When he speaks, he makes sure to distract attention away from him, says nothing of importance. He pretends to be a big child, and maybe a part of him still is, but Scott isn't nearly as harmless as others assume. Bucky knows for a fact Nat's taken him under her wing. Just last week they had a lock picking contest that neither won, which is impressive considering Scott went against Nat.

It's surprising Scott is there, though. Bucky's barely interacted with him as it is.

Ah, but—Bucky looks from Scott to Clint. Maybe Scott's here only to humor Clint. A grimace twists his mouth and Bucky shakes the thoughts away. No, the night gave him the same amount of gentleness from both of them. He runs the tips of his metal fingers over Scott's forehead, pushing little rebel strands away.

"Go back to sleep," Clint mumbles.

He pats at Bucky, but manages to swing his uncooperative hand onto Scott's shoulder, who startles awake. He leans up so fast, Bucky barely has time to snatch his arm away.

Scott blinks, Bucky blinks back. Clint groans, just as Scott's face turns a delightful shade of red.

"Coffee?" Bucky asks.

Clint lifts a thumbs up. Coffee it is.

~

Scott's in the bathroom and Clint's still in bed when breakfast arrives. Caffeine might be enough for Clint, but Bucky needs food. He's hungrier than he's been in days.

He sets the tray on the floor next to the windows, the skyline of the waking city spreading out under the faint sunlight of the morning. It's cloudy, but somehow not as gloomy. There's a tint to things, a sort of fuzziness that wasn't there's before. Scott sits down next to him, then hands over a mug of coffee to a fumbling Clint, like they're used to this.

It's routine for them, Bucky realizes.

Another mug is handed to him, too. Scott looks unsure, so Bucky smiles, going for reassuring. It works, because Scott's shoulders relax and the blush is back.

They eat in silence, slowly. It's only after half an hour that Bucky realizes no words have been spoken. Yet, it's so comfortable he's barely noticed time passing. Bucky leans back against the window panes that spread from floor to ceiling, watches as Scott gives Clint a third refill. This time Clint catches his hand and kisses his knuckles, and Bucky's heart thumps in his chest.

"Morning," Bucky breathes.

At that, Scott nods, then rummages through his pocket before fitting something around Clint's ear—oh. Clint blinks at eye open at Bucky, smirks with half his mouth while he fiddles with his other aid. Bucky swallows, chest filling with tightness, especially since Clint leans forward, waiting. Bucky meets him halfway, tastes the coffee off his lips.

"Eat something, too," he tells Clint.

"That's what I've been saying," Scott chimes in.

He grins at Bucky and Bucky grins back, hoping it's not as terrifying as it is when he looks at himself in the mirror. But Scott's face brightens, and when Bucky catches his sleeve, he crawls closer easily. He tastes like eggs and tomatoes, soft and pliant, and Bucky's reluctant to let go. So when they part, he keeps Scott there, an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

"Are we cuddling now?" Scott asks.

Bucky hums in agreement, causing Scott to scoot closer and Clint to shift toward then.

"Not you," Bucky raises a finger. "Eat first."

Clint's pout is so sudden and effective, that Bucky bursts in laughter.

"You're precious, sweetheart," Bucky tells him, "but you're not getting this until you feed yourself."

Ah, so Clint can blush too. Bucky smiles, wondering how many times he can get them both flustered, while Clint eats as fast as he can.

~

"Why'd you do it?" Bucky asks as he watches Clint and Scott pick out a t-shirt each from Bucky's closet.

There are scars on their torsos, Bucky notices, as they change, movements quick and clinical. Bucky's right hand moves of its own accord to the place where metal joins flesh on his left shoulder. Clint eyes him with understanding while Scott shrugs.

"You looked like you needed a hug," Scott says.

"But he was too afraid to get close," Clint adds and Scott scoffs at him, though doesn't contradict. "So he did the next best thing."

Scott's smile is sheepish and Bucky can't help placing a kiss on it, causing content to spread out on Scott's face.

"And you two?" Bucky asks.

"He needed a hug, too," Clint says, then puckers his lips expectantly.

Bucky takes a step toward him, but Scott intercepts with a loud smooch.

"Hey!"

Chuckling, Scott rushes out of the closet. Now next to him, Clint takes Bucky's hand.

"It's all about the sharing," Clint whispers. "We all have issues, so it's not gonna be an easy ride, but if you want—" Clint stops, biting his lower lip.

Bucky's heart thumps once in his chest, slow and determined, before returning to its regular rhythm. Yes, yes.

"I want," he says.

Clint rocks on the balls of his feet to peck at Bucky's cheek.

"Good," he breathes, then hurries after Scott to pick him up and swing him around. It backfires because Scott's pretty agile himself and they're soon in a tangle of limbs on the floor, laughing.

His clothes hang a little loose on their narrower frames. Not by much, but just enough.

Just enough to say their fit isn't good, yet still comforting, and Bucky shudders. No, that's not true.

This is perfect as it is.

~


	28. Rhodey & Sam

The first time James meets Sam they're both high in the sky and there's a lot of teasing involved. So much that they almost fall to the ground. Afterward, as they wait for the post-mission briefing for Steve and Tony, Sam pins him with a gaze that's the equivalent of being pushed against the wall. James can't stop himself from grinning and teasing him some more. The kid _stirs_ something in him, something he hasn't felt in years. It's almost as exciting as the suit.

His new fascination is part of the reason he joins the Avenger team. As his scientist instinct dictates, he wants to study Sam, take him apart and put him back together, see what makes him tick. Find where that fire in his eyes comes from, how to quell the sadness that sometimes overtakes it. He has a good rapport with Sam, spends a lot of time bonding over shared air force experiences, over world views. James feels there's a thing developing slowly between them, so maybe he should ask him out and—

—and Sam is wearing Barnes' hoodie, the long soft one that James helped Steve buy for him, barefoot and pantless in the middle of the night, drinking juice in front of the open fridge, skin beaded with sweat.

James shudders and walks away.

~

He can't stop thinking about it. Every time he closes his eyes at night, he _sees them_ , amongst wrinkled sheets, muscles taught and backs arched.

During the day Sam and Barnes bicker like an old married couple and James _aches_ with it. He berates himself for not seeing it sooner and he yearns for something like that in his life. Maybe someday, he tells himself, just like the last time when his previous infatuation didn't work out. It sounds hollower than ever this time, because he's getting older and the job is more dangerous.

He isn't, though, the kind of guy to rip people apart for personal gain, so he forces the thoughts out of his mind. He's only marginally successful, and the loss, even if it's over something he never had, keeps eating at him.

James is all out of hope, he realizes. He has none left.

~

He avoids the common areas of the facility for a while, pondering if he should transfer out again, but Tony's not looking so good these days, so he stays.

A couple of weeks later Natasha convinces him that dropping Tony off at Clint's farm is going to be good for him and Wanda, let them work out things in a benign environment. James hopes she's right. But then she disappears with Steve somewhere in the Siberian permafrost. It's for healing, she says. Hold the fort for us, she says.

She's probably right. Now, though, James is alone with Sam and Barnes.

It's hard to face them, but he can't avoid them anymore, so he stops trying. That's why he witnesses something that brings him back to square zero, rearranging his perception of the situation.

Sam's on the sofa, dozing off with the TV remote in his hand, while James shuffles at the counter across the room, piling up a sandwich on his plate. He's resolutely ignoring the way Barnes' sweater clings to Sam's arms. He's about to ask Sam if he wants some food when JARVIS pings one in low volume. James tilts his head, not recognizing the alarm, but Sam startles. Quicker that James can ask, Sam removes the sweater and shoves it behind his back and the sofa, hiding it with practiced ease.

That's when Barnes walks in, eyes wild and averted, hair in disarray. He yawns in his fist, confused and alert at the same time.

James looks at Sam and is met with a challenging glare, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and James' heart skips a beat.

This changes everything.

It still doesn't mean he has a chance with Sam, but he can't stop the relief from running through his body. He rolls his eyes at himself while Barnes shuffles to the coffee maker.

It's a little funny, to watch Sam squirm as he tries not to move, lest his secret is discovered. Too soon Barnes grabs his coffee and walks out onto the surrounding terrace. He disappears from view, probably to perch on one of the chairs to the side, and James turns a smirk at Sam.

He receives a glare in return, before Sam pulls the sweater out. He spends too much time carefully smoothing it over his knees and then folding it.

When he looks back up at James, he's just sad. "Please don't tell him," Sam whispers.

James nods, unsure of what to say. There are options, but not ones he would choose. Sam leaves and James takes his food out on the terrace. Now he needs to know what makes Barnes tick, what is it about him that has Sam stealing his clothes.

They haven't really interacted so far. Barnes keeps to himself and out of Tony's way, while James usually keeps around Tony.

"Hey," James says as he takes a seat two chairs over.

Barnes' eyebrow twitches before he nods in answer.

James places the plate with the sandwich on the chair between them. He's cut it in half, and now he pushes it closer to Barnes after he picks up his portion. He's two mouthfuls in when Barnes leaves. James sighs, chewing, watches the trees at the horizon for a short while.

He's about to get up for some water when Barnes returns, with two mugs this time, and hands one over. He sits back down, then snatches the remaining half off the plate.

James grins. "Thanks man," he says after washing down his bite. The coffee is sweet, with a pinch of milk, just as he likes it. None of that pitch black bitterness Tony insists on giving him. Huh, Barnes must be more observant that James thought.

The air is quiet around them as they eat and drink.

"So what do I call you? James? 'Cos I'm James and that would be a little weird, don't you think?"

Barnes swallows, looks at James for the first time. "Bucky," he rasps. "I like Bucky."

~

They start spending time together. Even spar a few times. It's glorious. Bucky's a snarky bastard that reminds him of Tony. There's also a haunted shadow in his eyes that, again, reminds him of Tony. He loves his best friend, so that's probably why he grows immediately attached to Bucky. It's the only plausible explanation. Nevermind that he never daydreams of Tony naked between him and Sam. Nevermind that.

He's paying more attention to Bucky now, that's why he notices it. Bucky revels in Sam's scent on his clothes.

It feels like Sam's stealing something from him, like Bucky's stealing something from him, and James is jealous of both while wishing to see them together happy. He could go talk to Sam and convince him to face Bucky, but instead he starts stealing Bucky's clothes as well.

~

The others return to the facility soon and James waits to be distracted by their presence. It doesn't happen. He keeps stealing clothes Sam has already worn.

When it occurs to him that his behavior resembles marking his territory, he finds a corner to huddle into and break down in hysterics.

It's how Natasha finds him. She takes one look at him and sighs deeply before sitting cross legged on the ground next to him.

James wipes at his cheeks with his sleeve. Bucky's sleeve. Fuck.

"It's worse, huh," Natasha comments.

So she left him here with Sam and Bucky on purpose. James closes his eyes, pushes his nose between his bent knees.

"Do you wanna face it or run from it?"

Options, she's giving him options, promising to help. She likes to help, in that blunt way of hers, James has found out a while back. Clint likes to help, too, it's what they do, even though neither would admit it out loud.

She waits patiently for his answer, but James doesn't need time to consider it. He knows what he wants. He wants Sam and Bucky.

"Face it," he rasps, even though it's going to destroy him.

"Okay," comes next.

Then, there's only silence and James looks up to find a box of tissues where Natasha used to sit. He grabs one, a trembling exhale rushing out of his chest, and blows his nose. She's probably going to do something that resembles ripping off a bandaid from a wound that hasn't healed yet, and it's going to hurt. James braces himself.

It's Sam that she brings, blindfolded, into the dark bedroom.

"Are you gonna tell me where we're going?" Sam asks as Natasha guides him.

James shuffles to his feet and Sam stills. She waves James over, then places Sam's hand on James' shoulder.

"As I promised," Natasha tells Sam. "A solution."

Sam's fingers rub the material, recognition forming on his face even though his eyes are covered and the space is bathed in shadows. His hand follows James' arm down, reaches his fingers—

Oh. It's his left hand. A flesh one.

He expects Sam to be angry, to rip his blindfold off and walk out, but instead his hand is lifted gently and pressed against Sam's lips.

"Get yourselves on the same page," Natasha says, something cutting in her voice. "Bucky needs you both."

She hands over a piece of paper and James has to pull his hand out of Sam's grasp to unfold it.

Oh.

Natasha leaves then, closing the door behind her, and James turns his attention to Sam. "You know who I am," he whispers.

"Yes," Sam replies. "What's it say?"

"Is this from Bucky?" James asks instead of answering.

"Yes, Nat found it earlier," Sam says, impatience in his voice. "What's it say?"

"Please, come out, I need you both," James reads.

Sam swallows, wrapping his arms around himself and James wonders why he hasn't removed his blindfold yet.

"Do you—"

The words fade out before James registers them, tinted by uncertainty. That explains it, then. This unwillingness to face things, James knows it too well. But Sam's already taken the first step, so it's James' turn to be solid and reassuring.

"Yeah," he says, as clearly as he can, gripping at Sam's arms. "I do, I want you and Bucky and so many things for us."

He pushes at Sam gently, walking him backward as he talks, until they reach the bed there.

"I want you to sleep here tonight, and have breakfast with me tomorrow, and talk about how we're going to approach Bucky. I want to cherish you."

Sam's body loses its tension and he lets James lie him down. He stretches over, ear onto his chest, to listen to Sam's heartbeat for a while. Only until Sam wraps his arms around James, until he pulls James up, until he takes his lips.

"Yes to all of that," Sam says.

~

Morning finds James watching Sam. They're both awake, but somehow the blindfold has remained over Sam's eyes and now James takes his time in studying the rest of him.

He breathes slowly, clearly listening to James, waiting.

He is _trusting_ James and the realization hits so fast and hard that it forms a knot in James' stomach. He stops wasting time and leans closer, placing a kiss on Sam's lips.

"Why'd you keep it on?" he asks, running a finger over the edge of the cloth.

"I feel safe with you," Sam says.

The knot transforms into a swarm of butterflies. James swears under his breath. "Smooth."

Sam's smile is wide. "I'm serious, though."

"Yeah, yeah," James mutters, utterly pleased, before kissing him again. And then, it dawns on him. "I think I know how to approach Bucky."

~

 


	29. Tony & T'Challa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> I hope you all like this one. I don't know much about T'Challa as a character, other than what I saw in MCU, but he seemed very wise and kind to me.   
> Thank you to sanders for the many POV shifting ideas :D  
> Enjoy your weekend!

"You won't believe what I just saw," Clint says, both hands splayed on the table in front of him as he leans into Tasha's space.

She raises an eyebrow, without looking up from painting her nail. "I'm not sure I want to know," she says slowly.

"Know what?" Steve's voice comes from behind and Clint almost jumps.

"Nothing," he says quickly.

Tasha looks at him suspiciously, now a little more interested than before, while Clint snatches the bottle of purple from her supply bag. "I'm not doing your nails," Tasha says.

Clint ends up cross legged on the floor, face to face with Steve, who paints a lot slower than Tasha, but just as carefully. Clint chews at his cheek, tapping at his knee with his other hand. Good thing the polish dries quickly.

"Fine," Tasha says, unexpectedly loud, making Steve jump and draw a line of purple up Clint's finger.

He grins while Steve huffs.

"So I was lost earlier," Clint starts, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. Tasha gives him an unimpressed look, but Clint ignores it. "And I accidentally overheard Tony arguing with T'Challa. They were at it like cats and dogs, which rude of Tony 'cos T'Challa's our host right?"

Steve nods and Tasha nods and Clint nods with them.

"Only Tony's a cat, too, not a dog. Steve's more of a dog. You're a cat—"

"Clint."

Clint inhales, cutting off words that always seem to run away from him. "And then I figured out what they were doing."

He pauses for dramatic effect, which prompts Steve to wave a hand impatiently.

"They are wooing the same person."

Tasha sighs, shoulders slumping, while Steve's eyebrows raise.

"Who?" Steve asks.

"I don't know," Clint says. "Had to rush out of there when I heard footsteps down the hall. But before that they were arguing about who gets to wear that person's clothes today. It's like they have this ritual or whatever, and today was T'Challa's day, but Tony said he gets an extra one 'cos he was traveling."

Steve hums in thought, while Tasha huffs a little too knowingly.

"You're in on it," Clint points at her.

"It's none of our business," Tasha says.

"Come on, Nat," Steve adds.

"Stay out of it," she tells them, then picks up her things, including the bottle of purple, and leaves the room.

Clint exchanges a look with Steve, then blows over his seven and a half painted fingernails, while understanding forms between them. They must know.

~

So far, T'Challa has caught and squished four cam equipped micro-drones, with his bare hands. Following him around is just as useless, because no matter how stealthy they are, the king's senses are too sharp. He slips through their figurative fingers every time.

They don't have much success with Tony either, who, despite walking around like an oblivious sleep-deprived genius, seems to have a sixth sense that allows him to avoid being tailed.

And that's just inside the compound.

Clint heaves a defeated sigh and slumps lower on the sofa. He sneaks a few pieces of popcorn from Steve's bowl, barely paying any attention to the movie playing on the screen. He sighs again and Steve pats at his head.

A snort disturbs the low chatter coming from the speakers as characters speak, and when did Barnes get here? Clint throws a popcorn at him, then has to duck to avoid it as it's batted back at him.

Steve squeals, because now Clint's head is in his lap. At least he saved the popcorn and Clint grins at him before closing his eyes. He's not moving. Neither is Steve it seems, but Clint's really not in the mood to analyze this further. Too sleepy, in the middle of the rainy afternoon, so he settles for half dozing.

In the armchair, right in his line of sight, there's Bucky, curled up. He sniffs at his sleeve, then buries his face against it. From afar, he does look like a cat taking a nap, but Clint can see him reveling in the scent of his clothes. Huh.

~

Bucky sniffs at Steve again and Clint narrows his eyes. Clearly Steve knows he's there, although nobody else seems to have noticed. For the past two hours, Bucky's been systematically smelling everyone milling about the lounge. He seems to be looking for a specific someone, almost as if—

Clint's eyes widen as they catch Steve's.

~

"Nope," Clint says, pushing at Steve's chest, but Steve has one mind right now.

So they slide on the perfectly waxed floor of the hallways until Clint wraps his arms around Steve's middle and puts his shoulder in it. Still, Steve is barely affected in his march.

"Aw, come on! Stop!" Clint begs. "Just stop and think for a second. Steve. Stop. Please..."

That finally makes Steve pause enough to look at Clint.

"But Bucky—"

"He's a grown man, come on. Let's go back. We'll watch Super Nanny and Dog Cops and do our nails."

"And eat icecream?"

"Yeah, we'll call Tasha, too."

Steve relents.

Actually, his mood has improved one hundred percent, because he jokes and pokes at Clint's side, tickling. Clint gives as good as he gets, until they're rounding a sleek sofa to stand in front of a door—

"Hey," Clint hisses. "This is Tony's suite. That's nasty of you, Steven."

Steve's jaw is clenched and his nostrils flare as he squares his shoulders. "We'll just have a chat."

The bedroom door is ajar, and Clint should protest more, because really, this is too much. He stops, however, when he hears voices, so he leans in next to Steve and peeks through.

Tony is stretched out on his back on the bed, while T'Challa kneels between his legs, petting at his thighs. His fingers knead, pulling murmurs out of Tony, who blinks sleepily and stretches under the ministrations.

"Good nap?"

"Yes, very good," Tony says. "Even better waking up."

T'Challa smiles, at least that's what Clint imagines, since he's mostly turned away from the door.

"Let's get this off first," he says after a while, plucking at Tony's sweater. "We don't wanna get it sweaty, do we."

Oh. That's Bucky's.

Tony, however, whines, doing nothing to help T'Challa remove it. He's not wearing anything else underneath and Clint has a flash of his scars as he covers himself with his arms. Steve's hand tightens around Clint's shoulder. They've all seen it before. They all know Tony isn't letting anyone near him like this, curled up against himself. Vulnerable. Now there's an exception it seems.

T'Challa folds the sweater carefully and sets it aside before removing his own t-shirt. He doesn't drop it, though. Instead, he tugs at Tony's hand.

"Here," he says. "Let's put this on you."

Clint's breath sticks to his throat as he watches Tony relax again. He lies back down with an audible exhale, chest covered.

"Bucky doesn't like his scars either," Tony says.

"I know."

"Did he answer?"

"Not yet," T'Challa tells him.

"I hope he trusts us," Tony whispers, while T'Challa unties the string of his sweatpants.

"Me too."

A hand comes onto Clint's mouth as he's being pulled backward and Clint has to force himself not to struggle. Steve lets him go as soon as they're back in the hallway.

~

They say nothing to each other until the door of Steve's bedroom closes behind them.

"Well then," Clint comments. "I guess he's in good hands."

The look Steve gives Clint makes his stomach flip.

"Wait, were you and Bucky—"

"No," Steve interrupts. "I just realized I want someone to be that gentle with me, too." He sighs as he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Clint scratches at his head, the corner of his eye catching onto the hoodie thrown over the back of a chair. He smiles as he snatches it.

~

The coffee machine is doing its wonderfully amazing job of creating bitter nectar and Clint yawns at it. He's so warm. Maybe he should spend the night more often in Steve's bedroom. Tasha should try it, too. Ah, but nah. She's into Sam. Clint shrugs.

"Barton," Tony says, voice rough from sleep.

"Stark."

"Long night?"

Clint shrugs again, but Tony's eyes are set on the side of Clint's neck—futz. The fridge door is shiny enough for Clint to inspect a hickey in a long row of more hickeys. Double futz.

"You're the one talking," he throws back.

Tony scrambles to check his own neck, but finds nothing and Clint laughs at him. Just then, the coffee machine beeps and they elbow at each other in their hurry.

Things settle for a while as they slurp sleepily, half slumped over the counter.

"I know you saw us last night," Tony says.

Clint waves a hand—he won't say anything—and Tony nods. "But Steve's gonna kill you both if it doesn't work out."

Tony snorts. "Bucky's more dangerous." He points at Clint's t-shirt.

Aw, it's Steve's.

With a smirk, Tony salutes him with his mug. "So what else is going on around here?"

"Nothing much. I drew up some new arrow plans."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Huh. Wanna build them?"

"Build what?" Bucky asks as he walks in. He seems disinterested as usual, but clearly that's not the case.

"New arrows," Clint says. "Wanna join?"

Bucky shrugs a shoulder. So that's a yes. But Tony, he sits there wide eyed until Clint pokes at him. Pft, he's got it so bad. Clint's sure Bucky will be happy.

Very happy indeed.

~


	30. Bruce & Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a different interpretation of Bruce than what I've written so far. He's always angry, he's darker, more tuned to his animalistic side. But he knows that anger is what made his father hurt the ones he loved, thus Bruce himself, and he tries very very hard to stop that cycle. It doesn't mean the darkness is easy to control, or that he always makes the best choices. But he's aware it's there and conscious of how it might make him stray. Like a sociopath, but one that can feel anger.

When Bucky finally agrees to come in, Bruce is far away in the middle of nowhere. Sure, there's Sam and Nat and Clint and a lot of other people qualified to provide help. But none of them is Bruce.

Every time Bucky remembers something, he gets this haunted look in his eyes, like a void replaces a part of his soul. Steve feels that emptiness physically, like a punch to the gut, without fail.

And despite his best intentions, Steve doesn't even know where to start helping his friend. But he isn't the person he knew long ago, is he? This Bucky is someone else, someone Steve doesn't know how to connect with, someone hurting.

So when JARVIS announces Bruce is on his way back, Steve shuts himself in Bruce's room and waits, in that armchair, in the corner, in the dark. The very one he always uses when he can't sleep, when Bruce lets him sit there for hours before walking over. And when Steve is at the edge of misery, Bruce touches his shoulder. That's all it takes, and Steve is putty in his hands. Bruce guides him to the bed, strips him of his thoughts along with his clothes, then lies there with his head on Steve's shoulder.

It's what usually happens.

Not tonight, though, because Bruce turns on the lights. He looks at Steve like Steve grew a second head.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce asks.

"I thought—"

"What. You. Thought. What."

Steve scrambles to his feet, trying to back away from the green tint on Bruce's cheeks, but there's nowhere to go. He presses himself against the wall, heart pumping painfully in his chest.

"You're mad at me."

Bruce growls.

"Whatever I did, tell me, and I'll fix it," Steve hurries to reassure. He can't lose Bruce and that balance. It's been the only thing pushing him through the night for months. Months of nightmares and mourning and missions and violence and anger and fear.

With a deep inhale, Bruce looks at the ceiling, then groans, his body losing the tension. He pulls off his glasses and rubs at an eye with the heel of his palm.

"Just go."

"No."

The look Bruce gives him when he glances over is so sharp, that Steve shudders. But he won't leave until he knows what's going on, so he lifts his chin in challenge.

"You are that much of an obtuse asshole, aren't you?" Bruce grits.

Steve lifts a hand, shaking his head, but Bruce continues before he can speak.

"I know I was just a surrogate for Barnes to you, so what are you still doing here? For fuck's sake, I even left to get away from you when he came back from the dead. What else do you want to take away from me?"

Steve opens his mouth, he knows he does, but no sound comes out.

"Fuck," Bruce says, before he sits on the edge of the bed. He leans his elbows on his knees and his forehead on his palms, glasses still dangling between his fingers. "Please, leave me alone," he whispers. "It was hard enough to come back when he's here with you."

There's still nothing moving past the lump in Steve's throat, so he does the next best thing. He walks there, stumbling onto his own feet, and kneels in front of Bruce. He holds onto his legs, grappling for purchase, while he tries to make sense of what he just heard.

"No," he manages. No, because Bruce misunderstood. No, because he can't leave, not now when everything is on the table, finally. "Please, no."

It just shows how deep this thing between them is, when Bruce gets it. He looks at Steve then, pushes his chin up and studies his face with intense scrutiny, a frown creasing his forehead.

"I can't have sex," he says.

Steve shakes his head. Bruce watches him for a while longer, then takes one of Steve's hands to press his fingers on his pulse point.

"Kiss me."

And Steve does just that, relief crashing through him. His senses are caught between the feel of Bruce's lips and his heartbeat, increasing, more and more—

"Enough," Bruce says, pulling away. He's drawing air, but it's tight, and Steve waits while he calms. "That's my limit."

"Ok," Steve breathes. "Ok."

His voice is shaking. Hell, his entire body is shaking, but he's happy Bruce is back.

"We need to talk more about this, but later. Come here."

Steve closes his eyes.

~

He's been an idiot. Bruce shakes his head at himself before sipping from his tea. He can't believe he got the wrong idea about where Steve stood. Sure, Steve says he's not in love with Barnes—"not like that"—but Bruce can see it on his face. Even so, he doesn't doubt the feelings Steve has for him, not anymore.

Last night he said nothing when Bruce bit at his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. All because the beast within wanted to make sure he's theirs. Bruce was more upset about it than Steve was. He doesn't want to hurt those he cares about. He could never.

So maybe there's a way to appease the raw side of his instincts.

For a partner, what could he—

Of course, a gift. And what does Steve want? Steve wants Bucky.

A growl crowds at the back of his throat, but Bruce swallows it. He appeases the Other Guy with images of felines hunting for their mates. This would be just like that, he reassures.

~

Except, Bruce doesn't really know where to start propositioning a brainwashed guy into entering an unusual relationship with two other men.

He can't explain to himself, either, why he's wearing Bucky's clothes. Perhaps scent marking. He swears, some days he can't make heads or tails of the storm brewing from the other guy. All he can do is try to comprehend it and manage it as best as he can. And when the Hulk is out, it's a milder experience for everyone if Bruce appeases his wants when he's slumbering.

At lest he hasn't tried biting Bucky, too, which is good.

~

Steve hurries down the hallway, pulling at the straps of his suit as he walks. He's back from his mission early and he can't wait to see Bruce. The past weeks have been incredibly satisfying, now that he has a name for the thing between them.

It's not even illegal anymore, even though they aren't having sex. But the sleeping together, skin against skin, gentle touches and kisses through the night, quiet conversations—it's all—it's—Steve hurries. He'll shower in Bruce's bathroom, he reckons, wrinkling his nose at the smell of gunpowder and sweat.

The image that meets him when he opens the door isn't at all what he expected.

Bruce stands there, in Bucky's favorite hoodie, an arm wrapped around himself. Steve closes the door behind him, then leans on it, forcing himself to not jump to conclusions.

"I get it, in a way," Bruce says.

"What," Steve rasps.

"What he feels. It's not the same, but when I can't remember how many I've hurt while the Other Guy has control, y'know," Bruce explains, waving a hand.

Steve swallows and Bruce removes the hoodie. He folds it carefully before setting it aside.

"You smell like blood," he comments, smoothing out the corners of the hoodie, and Steve grimaces. "See, smell. It's... organic? I don't know if that's the right word. But the Other Guy only understands basic things. Need. Want. Have." Bruce looks up. "He decided Bucky is ours. So he is."

Steve has to blink a few times as what Bruce is saying starts making sense, and soon a smile pulls at his cheeks wide enough to hurt.

"The Hulk decided, huh," he says.

Bruce shrugs, turning away. "Go wash up."

"Yessir," Steve returns with a smirk.

~

Having Bucky smell like both him and Steve is better than any other marking instincts Bruce might have. He holds still while Bucky sniffs at his shoulder.

"Tea?" he asks when Bucky has reasonably backed off.

"Sure."

He looks tired, Bruce notices while he fixes him a cup. Bucky joins him at the kitchen counter with a jar of honey, out of which he eats by the spoonful. Outside the windows, New York stretches alight under the cover of night. The kitchen is just as dark, but that doesn't seem to bother either of them.

"So what's keeping you up tonight?"

Bucky frowns at his spoon before giving it one last lick. "I was thinking," he says and Bruce hums. "How does one go about luring out a secret admirer? The internet is not helpful."

"Have you asked Steve?"

"That big lug? Nah, he can't see love if it slaps him over the face," Bucky says, pushing back his hair.

Bruce almost snorts tea out of his nose. "Did you try Natasha?" he asks, getting an incredulous look. "Tony? No, you're right, you're right. Sam?"

"Sam says to just urge them to reveal themselves. That they're probably waiting for a sign from me."

"Sam is a wise guy," Bruce says mildly, covering the increase of his pulse. He draws air through his nose, pushing down at the impatient urge to take hold of Bucky now, now, now.

Bucky swallows a mouthful of tea as he considers it. "I think—I think I'll do that. Thanks," he says, taking his drink with him as he leaves the kitchen.

"Good," Bruce whispers, content warming his bones all the way to that dark place inside of him that's always brewing storms. Tonight, though, everything is calm, like the night sky. "Can't wait."

~


	31. Thor & Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> This is yet another take on Thor and Bruce, slightly different that how I usually write them, but well. I like to play with the characters :3  
> Hope everyone is having a wonderful weekend.  
> Enjoy!

Thor steps over rubble, looks under fallen beams, keeping his ears strained to even the slightest sound. His cape catches onto a piece of rebar and, with a frustrated huff, he activates that mechanism that draws it in its cache. It would need thorough washing after the battle they'd just had. Everyone is sporting wounds, which are right now being taken care of by Midgardian medics. Even Steven's out for the count. Most of them got caught in the space between two crumbling buildings, sent down when Hulk dropped on one after swallowing that explosive device.

They got out, all but Bruce. Thor shakes his head, huffing again. He's the only one uninjured—well, his legs and sight are unimpaired at least—so he must search. The Midgardians are too slow in their rescue efforts, taking time to secure the fallen structures, but Thor can't wait. This is a team mate, and no matter how many time agent what's-his-face tells him Bruce is unkillable—Thor growls. He has half a mind to go back there and smack some sense into the little weasel.

Bruce is team.

Bruce could be stuck without air, endlessly suffocating—

Thor sucks in a breath, pushing the thoughts aside. His ribs give a sharp twinge as he bends to look under a concrete slab, but there are footsteps nearing from behind, so he stifles the grimace. The pain blurs his vision anyway, making his head spin.

A metal arm steadies him.

"I came as soon as I could," Bucky says and Thor frowns.

"So director Fury finally found wisdom and removed his guards."

Bucky coughs. "Not exactly."

Thor grins, but Bucky turns away.

"You're injured, go to medical with the others. I'll search for Bruce."

"We'll find him faster if we do it together, my friend," Thor counters, grabbing Bucky's shoulder in thanks.

The look Bucky gives him is wary, shifting from the point of contact to Thor's face, and Thor snatches his hand away. Midgardians don't that, he reminds himself. But then, Bucky half rolls his eyes, and he grabs at Thor's elbow, pulls him close to support his weight.

They don't go much faster, but now Thor can lean on Bucky, can let his body mend. And he realizes how strong Bucky must be, not because he can hold Thor up, but because he finds it in himself to live on, day after day. Most of all, he finds it in himself to care, after all that's been done to him.

There's a resilience in Bucky that shakes Thor to the core, reminding him why he loves Midgard so much. It's the same thing he sees in Bruce's eyes, after he wakes up from switching with Hulk—a deep, intangible sadness, over the things they've done, a desperation that's so profound it should be crippling. Yet, both Bucky and Bruce swallow it from the inside out. Like Bruce took that explosive to save the entire neighborhood.

Except for these two buildings, but that is a small price to pay.

Unless Bruce is irreversibly hurt, then Thor will—he'll—

He'll what? Thor's heart pangs in his chest and he startles. What?

There's no more time to ponder over this sudden epiphany, because Bucky sees movement and soon they remove a couple of beams that are trapping Bruce.

He's dirty, naked, but his body seems otherwise unharmed. His face though, is caught in horror as quiet sobs wreck his frame. It must've been hell, to contain the force of the blast, and Thor is caught in the terror that sends wetness down Bruce's cheeks.

This is—

Thor hurts, but as Bucky removes the sweater he's wearing, he shakes himself out of stupor. Bruce needs help, and Bucky kneels to get his uncooperative arms into the sleeves. There's nothing else to wear around here, so Thor releases his cape back out, rips it off its hooks.

They make a peculiar sight, returning to where intervention teams are milling about, Bruce wrapped in red and black, curled up in Bucky's arms, while Thor wobbles behind them, the pain his chest amplified by each step.

This is how it starts.

~

Thor watches Bruce wear Bucky's clothes, then watches Bucky revel in the scent left behind. He watches for days that turn into weeks. He's convinced Bucky has no idea who the thief of his clothes is, although it should be obvious.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth. He feels left out of something he never even had, but it's a sort of loss anyway, especially when Bruce avoids him. He's been doing that ever since that battle that injured almost everyone. Before, they used to go out every couple of days, play with Hulk while Mjolnir took him flying around the big guy. They used to drink foul tea in the middle of the night.

Now, there's nothing. Thor yells as he punches the gym bag. His fist goes through the material easily, sand flying everywhere. He gets why Steve finds this so satisfying.

Still—

Thor doesn't even know what he wants. He has no reason to be upset, not when he said nothing to Bruce. And Bruce is not a mind reader, to know what Thor thinks of their interrupted connection.

They should talk. Perhaps Bruce will reject him, but then he'd know and would be able to put it behind him. Perhaps Bruce will accept to be his friend again, perhaps something else. Whatever Bruce will want, this is what Thor will also—

Huh. Thor frowns at himself. He wants what Bruce wants, so that means he wants Bruce happy.

He nods at the empty room. It's a good thing to desire, even though it might not bring Thor the same contentment.

~

Bruce doesn't answer when Thor knocks, but the door opens soundlessly for him. It's dark in the bedroom, already past midnight, yet the sight in front of him is unmistakable. In a far corner, Bruce sleeps, curled up on the floor. He's wrapped in Thor's cape, and hugging something black to himself. His shoulders are bare as they peek from under the red cloth, his calves as well—

Thor raises an eyebrow, because that's his cape Bruce seems to be naked under, but then it dawns on him. Bruce feels safe under it. Thor shudders and steps closer. With as little jostling as he can, he lifts Bruce, then moves to the bed.

They sit there, for a long while in the dark bedroom, Thor with his back against the headrest, Bruce against his chest. He's clearly awake, but unmoving in Thor's embrace, and Thor waits him out.

"I'll give it back," Bruce rasps.

"Keep it."

"But—"

"Keep it," Thor insists. He closes his eyes, leans his forehead on top of Bruce's head. "On Asgard we regale our lovers with our most dear clothing items, so they have us close always. I don't know what customs Midgard has, but keep it either way."

Bruce stills in Thor's arms and Thor readies himself to let him go.

"I have a confession to make," Bruce finally says. "I've been avoiding you—"

Thor huffs.

"—because that day, when you and Bucky found me, I figured it out. I figured I was so fucking in love with you that I—I um, I—"

There's a fraction of a second between the moment Bruce's words reach Thor's ears until they make sense. Just a tiny fraction, but it's still too long of a pause, and Thor hurries to lifts Bruce's face up, to see for himself. He speaks the truth.

"You love me," Thor whispers, awed and suddenly warm.

"No," Bruce laughs, and it feels pained. "I love you and Bucky and if that's not fucked up, then I don't..." Bruce bites his lip. "I'm sorry."

This is—

Thor picks up one of Bruce's hands and places a kiss on his knuckles. "If you'll allow me to join you, we'll woo Bucky together."

"Really," Bruce breathes, a hint of a grin already making its way on his face.

"Yes, of course." Thor pulls the black cloth from Bruce's arms, runs his fingers over it. "This is his."

"I stole it," Bruce says, sheepish.

"I know. I've watched you do it, awash with jealousy, but no more. We'll share."

Bruce blinks at him. "Just like that?"

"What else is there? There's a higher probability he'll die before us. That I'll find my end before you. Why let ourselves be limited," Thor argues. As he speaks, though, Bruce's eyes widen and Thor closes his again. "You might never die," he whispers, "but if you agree, I'm pledging you as many years as you'd like."

Bruce shifts and Thor tightens his hold around him involuntarily, but instead of moving away, Bruce presses closer.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Bruce says. "That means yes, I agree."

Thor doesn't stop the wide grin splitting his face, even though it makes kissing harder.

~

Thor paces the room while Bruce worries at his sleeves pulled tight around his knuckles. He shifts in the armchair, drawing his knees closer.

"It's been a week," Thor says. "What if he changed his mind?"

"He hasn't," Bruce replies, but it sounds more like a question that a statement.

With a huff, Thor strides over and wiggles himself next to Bruce. It's a tight fit, but he takes pleasure in these small gestures. Invading Bruce's space is a bad idea on any given day, except if it's Thor doing it. He wonders if Bucky will allow the same.

The control device of the morpher he brought from home pings in his hand and Thor checks its surface—

"Bucky is wearing the blindfold."

Bruce takes a deep breath while Thor stands.

This is—

His chest aches, but it's a pleasant feeling. His belly squirms under Bruce's knowing smile.

This is what hope must feel like, that after all he's lost, he can still find kindred spirits.

This is contentment. Joy. Elation.

~


	32. Thor & Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* Something... different. *smirk*

On the other side of the door, Bucky waits. Natasha touches the door with her fingertips, delicate as always. She is tiny, compared to Thor's frame. With the three of them together, she'll seem even smaller. Thor wraps his fingers around her shoulder.

~

_The gym is empty, silent save for the shuffle of clothing hastily being removed. Thor's body aches, but Natasha bested him, hurt him in all the right ways and now she'll giving even more. Thor is euphoric even before he sinks in her welcoming embrace._

~

He knows they've talked about this. He knows she wants him there, but Thor feels like he should leave. He was merely a passenger, just a temporary presence in their lives before it's time for them to be together again. On the other side of the door, Bucky waits, and Thor could wage that he only waits for Natasha.

~

_The mission was horrible. Thor almost died and his heart feels like it's pumping pure adrenaline instead of blood through his veins. He grabs a hold of Natasha's belt as he strides through the ambulances, thankfully unseen. She berates him for it, but later, because right now she's too busy being pressed against a wall._

~

Yet, he can't make himself let go of her. He can't make himself let her go, either. Natasha looks at his hand, clutching tightly, bruising, shaking. Thor's vision blurs.

~

_His mother is gone. Natasha lets him press against her as he shares more of his soul than he ever shared with another before. The dawn finds Thor spread out on the bed, numb, while she fucks into him. Slowly, gently, until feeling returns to his mouth. She pretends she doesn't hear his whispers, his promises._

~

Her small palm covers his fingers, a gentle thing. Her eyes pin him to the spot and the shaking of Thor's hands spreads through his limbs. He should go, now, before it's too late.

~

_He's never seen her face like this. Raw, open. He's never seen emotion on her face, not like the one she feels now. Thor listens to her all night, hanging on every word that reveals the last hidden parts of herself to him. She tells him about her training, about the man with a metal arm, about his death. About how he is still alive now, without a trace of memory. How the Natalia of then is gone with Bucky's lost remembrance._

~

"He's waiting for us," Natasha whispers. "What's wrong?"

Thor licks his lips, words elusive. She understands anyway, she always does.

"Do you really not want to do this, or do you think you're doing me a favor by not being in the way?"

He looks away, crossing his arms. He's vaguely aware this is the answer of a child on the verge of petulance, but he's about to lose the two persons he holds most dear right now, so he's allowed, he figures.

"Fine, go," Natasha says and Thor feels like the floor is slowly swallowing him. "But while you keep my supposed happiness in mind, ask yourself, what about Bucky's? He's waiting for us, dick," she hisses. "For us. Not me. He doesn't remember me, we're new people to him. Some prince of Asgard you are. Where's the Thor that almost took me in front of civilians, huh?"

He startles and steps back, heart thumping so hard that it feels lodged in his throat. Natasha rounds on him, glare intensifying.

"What do you want," she grits low from between her teeth, finger jabbing at his chest, and Thor starts to turn. "Remember what you promised?"

Thor stills, as if suddenly doused in cold water. His exhale comes out along with a growl and he grabs her hand.

"I promised to be truthful," he repeats his own words. "To love you in the way you need me."

She smiles, small and perfect. "That last part is entirely impossible, you know that."

Thor nods.

"But I do need you," she whispers. "Bucky needs you. So how about you tell me the truth now. What do you want?"

He inhales. "Both of you."

Natasha steps closer. "So have us. If it weren't for you, we wouldn't even be here."

Before Thor knows it, she is guiding him back to the door.

~

_He does it to give her a sense of closure, a chance to say goodbye to Bucky. He wears Bucky's clothes while they dance to forgotten music in her bedroom. He keeps wearing Bucky's clothes even when he's alone, basking in Bucky's presence. He carries her love with him, with every stolen hoodie, with each returned sweater. She discovers his secret, but instead of walking away, she shares. He hasn't been more afraid of losing someone. Two someones._

~

On the other side, Bucky waits. 

~


	33. Natasha & Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw Bucky. Made myself sad with this one.

He claws at the pain until it breaks apart and he can push out, where there's air, where there's—he inhales. There's a woman here, her hands soft where they touch metal, her voice gentle as she tells him to breathe.

There's a woman here and he feels like he should know her, but he doesn't even remember where _here_ is.

His eyes move quickly, cataloging the space unimpeded by the quaking of his chest as he struggles to gulp air. It's a bedroom, dark, curtains drawn. Outside, city lights. A large city. Bed, they're sitting on it. Corner, counter, small kitchen, a man.

The man's hands move slowly as he prepares tea. Not a threat. His hair is curly and he watches through his eyelashes. Dangerous, but not a threat.

"Look at me," the woman says and he follows the voice. "Do you know where you are?"

He shakes his head, his entire body twitching.

"Do you know who I am?"

Her face. She—he lifts a hand to touch her cheek. _Do you know who I am?_

"Who I am," he repeats, his voice hoarse and foreign.

"You are Bucky," she tells him. "And you're safe here."

He believes her. There's a gun in her lap, but it's pointed toward the door, the best position to be grabbed and used on assailants. He scoots further back, shielding himself from the point of entry. _The blast hits the shield and_ _—_

Bucky gasps as he tries hold onto a hand that's not there.

The woman, though, she places her small fingers between the metal ones. Who would wear such a thing, he asks himself, frowning at the glinting arm.

"Bucky," she says, "Bruce will bring you some tea now, ok?"

He blinks, glances at the man. Still not a threat, so he nods.

He has to let go of the knife to drink, but the woman doesn't take it away. She sheaths it and shoves it under his thigh. Good.

The tea tastes strange.

"Bucky, look at me." He does. "I need you to count to four, one two three four, that's it, and back, four three two one, inhale."

He's dizzy, eyelids heavy, as the cup is taken from his hand.

"Focus on my hand, do you remember holding my hand?"

Maybe. He—he's dizzy.

"That will pass in a few minutes, focus on my hand."

There's a hand on his shoulder. It's his hand, on a boy's shoulder. His hoodie is missing. Somebody's been taking it.

"We've taken it," she says, "but we brought it back."

Larger hands cover hers and his when the man, Bruce, sits next to them. Minutes pass in still silence, their pulse points strong against his skin. Slowly, his head clears of fears, the pain in his chest subsiding. He never realized it was there, choking him.

"What was in that tea," he rasps, rolling his head against the headboard to look at her.

"You know we never drug you," Bruce says. "Just hypnosis to bring your heartrate down. She does it to me, too." _Do you want to hear a song? It goes like this, one two three four_ —

Bucky frowns.

"I trust her," Bruce continues. "Do you trust us?" _I need you._

Bucky closes his eyes and presses his palms against the burning behind his eyelids. "I forgot you again," he mutters.

Nat pats his knee gently, knowingly. He hates doing this to them.

"We'll keep reminding you," she says.

"What if it doesn't come back?" With effort, he manages to look at her.

"Then we'll tell you all the stories, and then make new memories."

"Wh—"

"Over and over," she interrupts.

"As many times we need to," Bruce adds. "Like you tell me what disasters I cause when I'm not at the helm. Like you remind Nat her past does not define her."

He believes them. Somehow, he does. He still doesn't know what city stretches outside, but he knows who they are. He almost knows who _he_ is. "What about the clothes?"

"That's how we got together," Bruce says as he leans against the headboard next to Bucky.

Nat curls up against him, head on his shoulder and he pulls her closer with his flesh arm.

"It all started with a dare," Nat says. "So there's these two guys, both assholes, their names are Steve and Tony, we'll introduce you."

Bucky barks a laugh and kisses the top of her head. "Let me guess, the bickering type?" He can see Steve's pinched face arguing with Tony over bananas. He remembers them, but Nat always tells him stories like he's the new guy. In a way, he is, every time he wakes without any recollection of himself or his surroundings.

"Yep," Natasha replies, popping the word between her lips. "So these two one day decided to mess with Clint's coffee. Have you met Clint yet? Great guy, kinda clumsy."

Bruce nods. "As long as you don't mess with his coffee."

"They put decaf in the coffee machine, and in retaliation Clint swapped everyone's clothes around. He couldn't find out who the culprit was, so he did it to everyone. It was hilarious."

"That's when the story really starts," Bruce says. "I got your clothes and you got Nat's. But we switched them back before you realized they were gone. You weren't looking so good back then."

"And I'm handsome now?" Bucky jokes.

"Damn right," Bruce tells him and Bucky leans over to kiss his cheek.

"Then what happened?"

"Well," Nat says smirking at him, "Bruce kinda wore your stuff because he keeps running out of clothes. I might have or might have not been helping them steal some."

"She definitely helped me," Bruce counters.

"I'm glad," Bucky breathes.

He wraps his other arm around Bruce as well, pulling him closer. His eyelids close again, but to allow a memory to resurface. "I liked the smell of the stolen clothes, it felt like being embraced. But then I wanted the real thing so I left you a note?"

He finishes in an unintended question because he's not sure about that part.

"You did," Nat confirms, patting at his middle.

"And miss assassin here gave you a blindfold," Bruce mutters under his breath.

"Yeah?"

"It's in the nightstand," Nat says, already twisting around to grab it.

Oh.

That night they—

"I got my hugs that night," he whispers. "And kisses."

"Want more now?"

"Yes, please."

Nat lifts the cloth with a raise of her eyebrows and Bucky shakes his head. He wants to see them, commit them to his treacherous memory. But even if he forgets them, that's fine.

Because every time he wakes up disoriented, they feel safe. Bucky smiles against lips and clutches at hands.

Dangerous, not a threat. His shelters.

~


	34. Rhodey & Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> I hope you're all having a nice weekend. Enjoy!

Before donning the suit Jim didn't even know that enhanced humans existed anymore. All he ever heard were rumors here and there, unproven, unverified. He knew to keep his nose out of it, partly because he didn't want to get in the middle of something— _if_ there was anything to it—but mostly because he just didn't care. Tony provided enough enhancement in his daily life.

But then they found Steve Rogers in ice, then a god appeared on trails of lightning, then they were battling _aliens_ —now it seems that all those outside the norm have found their way here, in the Tower. Actually, no, Jim knows exactly what happened. Tony happened. Tony collects them like a starving man. Bruce is a partner in recklessness, Steve in snark, Clint in parental issues and coffee... all of them, one by one, provide Tony with much needed figurative counter forces.

Which, hey, should make Jim feel left aside, but it doesn't. He has his own _thing_ with Tony and Tony has that much more of him to share. He's wired and thinking too much on the best of days. The others provide balance, keep his mind off its own dark recesses.

This one, though, Jim doesn't know where he fits among Tony's orbits. He's more broken than anyone Jim ever saw and if he isn't careful, Bucky might end up flying through like a disruptive comet. So Jim keeps his eyes peeled and on Bucky Barnes.

It's why he learns all of Bucky's expressions, as small and fleeting as they are. It's why he knows what Bucky likes and that Bucky puts up a brave front, especially in front of Steve. How Bucky's face looks after crying himself to sleep. That he hates the near sterile smell of industrial detergent on his clothes after the staff brings back their laundry.

Jim loves Bucky almost as much as he loves Tony.

The realization paralyzes him.

But just like with Tony, there is no chance anything good will come out of it. And just like with Tony, Jim resigns himself to loving from afar. He cares for Tony, he might as well do the same for Bucky.

The easiest, quickest thing Jim can do is remove that smell from Bucky's clothes, starting with that thick, soft hoodie Bucky seems to favor. He wears it, rubs his fingers over it, smooths it out, and returns it. Once, twice—weeks pass and Jim makes his methodical way through Bucky's closet.

~

He shouldn't, but he can't help himself. Jim pulls Tony's t-shirt on, then Bucky's flannel shirt over it, wraps it tight around his chest. He closes his eyes, hugging his arms around himself. Like this it feels as if Bucky protects Tony and Jim protects Bucky, while he himself is drowning in both of them.

It's been weeks. He should stop before Tony notices, because Tony is observant, especially about the things people are trying to hide from him. Most of the time Tony ignores what he discovers, brushes off the things he knows, pretends he's oblivious.

Well, he is, he really is oblivious about emotions when they're directed at him. He doesn't trust easily and Jim gets it. He's been there with Tony through all the shit. So he should stop before Tony notices and misunderstands.

When he opens his eyes, though, Tony is already there, looking at Jim like the Tower is crumbling around them.

Tony runs.

He's fast, too, and Jim hurries after him. They round corners, slide on the floors, while Tony shouts at JARVIS to lock doors behind him. The AI, though, doesn't, and Jim thinks this is a good sign. He _should_ run after Tony, he _should_ confront whatever hurt Tony is feeling right now. If anyone knows everything about Tony, that's JARVIS and Jim trusts the AI.

They're in one of the auxiliary control rooms a floor down when Jim finally catches up. Tony almost manages to lock the door, but Jim pushes his way in.

For the longest of minutes, they stare at each other, panting.

And then Tony's eyes shift down, where the logo of Iron Maiden peeks out from underneath the shirt that hangs open, a little too loose on Jim's frame.

Just like that, Tony's expression shutters closed. His face is blank, although it's obvious he's straining himself to keep it that way.

Jim is suddenly all out of patience. His throat forms a growl and he slams his fist against the door behind him. Tony's jaw clenches as he lifts his chin, challenging, and Jim inhales slowly, steadies himself.

"Are you so repulsed?" he asks, disappointment coloring his words, but he doesn't have it in himself to spare Tony's feeling anymore.

"What you do is your business," Tony counters.

"Is it really?"

"Hey, if you wanna fuck around that's your problem, just don't do it in my cloth—"

The word tapers off in the middle, but by then Tony's voice is already trembling and his eyes are wet.

That's just—so fucking _Tony_ , that Jim can't help but bark a laugh. The tension drains out of him while Tony's indignation does nothing to stop a big fat tear from falling on one of his cheeks. He wipes at it angrily, and Jim takes the couple of steps separating them in a heartbeat.

He pulls Tony's hand away from his face. "Stop rubbing, you'll hurt yourself," he whispers, then leans down to kiss his cheek.

Tony sobs and sniffles, eyes set on the floor. "I don't understand what's happening."

Jim wraps his free arm around Tony's shoulders, pulls him close and kisses his temple, too. "Something good is happening."

"Really?"

"Yeah, Tones. I promise it's good."

Tony's face is wet against his neck, but that's fine. At least he isn't hiding anymore and Jim knows now. Tony loves him back. They'll have a longer conversation later, he'll have to explain everything clearly. For now, he caresses Tony's back.

~

The floor of the control room is littered by balled up tissues and empty water bottles. Jim hands over the tub of icecream where they're sitting on the floor, backs to the wall, legs extended. Tony shoves the spoon in his mouth, eyes carefully set on the monitors ahead.

They've been watching Bucky for the past half hour, ever since Jim explained just what it means when he says he loves both him and Tony.

"So what do you want from him?" Tony finally asks.

Jim sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "There's nothing to want. He doesn't need drama right now. I mean look, he's still healing," Jim says, waving at the monitor. Bucky is in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, running his fingers over the metal plates of his left hand, then over the edge of his sleeve, in a rhythmic motion.

Tony says nothing and Jim doesn't look at him. He's not ready to know what Tony thinks of it all. They haven't talked yet about where they're going next. Maybe Tony doesn't even want a relationship, not a romantic one.

"Sir," JARVIS announces through the speakers, "Sgt. Barnes requests access to video footage to and from his room. He claims someone has been inside his closet."

With a sigh, Jim pulls his legs up and rests his forehead on his knees.

"Show him," Tony says and Jim startles so badly, he almost flails.

"The requested footage is missing," JARVIS tells them.

"I deleted it," Jim says. Tony rolls his eyes, tuts, and moves to stand, but Jim catches his arm. "What are you doing?"

"I'm—" Tony frowns, blinks, raises his eyebrows, then waves a hand in the air. His mouth is working wordlessly and Jim waits. "Good boyfriends give each other what they need, right?"

Jim laughs, then squeezes at Tony until he squeaks.

"We need to work on your communication skills, babe," he says.

"Shut up and kiss me."

"Bossy much," Jim comments, leaning closer.

Despite Tony's bravado, he's anxious, and Jim kisses his cheek in small pecks before bringing their lips together. It feels like a great analogy of their relationship for the past twenty years. Incremental.

~

Bucky leaves a note for the thieves of his clothes and they leave a note in turn, asking for trust. It takes hours to negotiate this with Tony, mostly because Tony avoids the topic. But in the end he understands that Jim doesn't want this without Tony fully in it.

The blindfold they leave with Bucky is mostly for Tony's benefit.

When JARVIS announces Bucky is wearing it, waiting, his heart skips a beat.

~

Bucky still sleeps between them when Jim wakes up. Tony's already leaning against the headboard, poking at his tablet. Jim waves and Tony smiles at him. He moves as little as possible, yawning, then pets Bucky's hair while they wait. Nothing like the harsh light of morning to see if their presence is indeed welcome. Tony must be vibrating with it already, given the way he is chewing at his lower lip.

"Why'd you offer him shelter," Jim whispers, trying to distract Tony from overthinking.

Tony blinks as he register the questions, then he places his palm over the arc reactor in his chest. Invasive surgery, torture, forced to be a weapon or build one—Jim is suddenly reminded of that moment when he had no control over his suit, trying to stop himself from shooting at Tony, helpless. He wraps his fingers around Bucky's metal bicep.

"Ok," he breathes. "Ok."

It's then that Bucky stirs, eyes opening slowly.

"Hi," Jim tells him and is rewarded with a smile that sends a sweet pang through his chest. The kiss that follows is light and short, but just right.

"Morning, Terminator," Tony says from Bucky's other side. "So what do you want for breakfast? JARVIS, get some—oof."

Tony's mouth snaps shut when Bucky pulls him down on the bed. He leans over Tony and Jim grins into the pillow, watching closely.

"Tony," Bucky says as if he's answering himself. His flesh palm comes to rest on Tony's chest, matching Tony's earlier gesture, and Tony lets go of the tablet in exchange for grabbing onto his wrist.

"It was all Rhodey," Tony explains, sucking in too much air, "he got your clothes, and mine, and he wore them, I mean who knew what he was doing, I surely didn't, because Jarvis is a bastard that needs some formatting soon—"

Tony's mouth runs and Bucky glances at Jim in confusion.

"Just kiss him," Jim says.

Bucky smirks, then gives Tony's lips something else to latch onto. His hand is in Bucky's, has been all this time, and Jim scoots closer, giddy. This is good, definitely amazing.

~


	35. Sam & Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> I hope you're all enjoying your weekend! It's very hot in this little corner of the world, work's been super nasty for me. Yeah, it never ends. But I do hope it gets lesser in the following weeks. Vacation awaits at the end of July, can't wait for it!  
> In the meantime I'm working on a short original and on this fic, to wrap it up so I can go back to the Ghosts update that's in wip for months now.  
> Many thanks to Sanders for giving me ideas back in chapter 22 :D  
> Thank you for reading! o/

There could never be two people with more different _anything_ than Sam Wilson and Tony Stark. That morning Bucky woke up between them he had to rub sleep out of his eyes three times before believing what he was seeing.

Thing is, Sam and Tony are aware of this, so much so that they're almost wary. Yet, it's what makes this work. It makes them considerate to each other even under the bickering. Even when they argue over the merits of breakfast. _Especially_ when one is reckless and almost dies.

Bucky lets out a shaky breath as he changes the bandage around Sam's forearm.

"Stop that," Sam says, bopping his forehead with his free hand.

"Let the man suffer," Tony quips from the side. He's sitting there, apparently disinterested in the proceeds, but Bucky knows better. Tony needs to see with his own two eyes that Sam is healing.

"It's just a scratch," Sam tells him.

They glare at each other for almost half a minute before Tony sniffles and turns back to his tablet. Sam's face falls, eying his arm with dismay just as Bucky finishes his ministrations. He takes off his hoodie and passes it to Sam. As soon as Sam's wrapped in it, Tony scoots closer on the sofa, curling up against Sam.

"He's fine," Bucky says, running his flesh fingers through Tony's hair, aiming for convincing both himself and Tony.

Sam rolls his eyes at them, then waves Bucky closer. The peck he places on Bucky's lips is short, but warm and Bucky nods. They're still alive. He busies himself with packing up the medkit, even takes his time to snap a picture of the other two with his phone. Tony grumbles, but he's smiling, and Bucky leans down to kiss his cheek.

When he stands back up Steve is there, face scrunched. He stands in the doorway, behind Sam and Tony, mouth partly open and one hand hanging in the air.

Bucky scratches his head.

And then, from the depths of his shredded memories, he summons that smirk from _before._ He offers it to Steve with a head tilt, smugness unabated.

Steve's face lights up with a grin. Bucky's shoulders slump with relief.

~

Something has changed in his interactions with Steve. For one, Steve is not walking on eggshells around Bucky anymore. It helps, brings forth memories, fills up gaps.

They are _brothers_ , and now Bucky's starting to remember what that felt like.

"So how does this work—I mean it's three of you, so—" Steve waves vaguely, awkward for asking.

They're on the roof because Nat says they need sunlight and fresh air. Now they watch her and Clint dare each other to walk precariously on the thin, slippery banister of the railing that runs around the edge of the space. Two chairs over, Tony appears bored with everything, but his white knuckled grip on his tablet betrays concern. Bucky's sneaked a peek at it earlier and he knows for a fact that Tony has a couple of suits hovering outside the building to catch them if they fall.

Sam leans up from his lounge on the chair between Bucky and Tony, gives Steve a look over his sunglasses. Bucky sees the shit eating grin before it even graces Sam's face.

"Why Steven," Sam drawls, "you need a diagram? See what fits where?"

Steve rolls his eyes and Sam's teeth glint in the sunlight.

"We usually keep Tony in the middle," Sam continues, "distributive attention and multitasking are his jam. Y'know, his mouth does one thing, while his hands—"

"That's not what I meant," Steve cuts him off, his face reddening.

Bucky groans at the sky. Great, now Steve's imagining _things_. He reaches over, pats at Sam's shoulder. It's effective, too, because now Sam is busy placing a kiss on the back of his hand instead of running his mouth off.

On his other side, Steve sighs deeply.

"We talk," Sam tells him, serious and quiet this time. "About everything. Ask permission. Don't take things for granted."

Steve turns to look at Sam and then nods, once.

Oh, so— _oh._

"Who is it?" Bucky asks.

The head tilt Steve gives toward the edge of the roof is small, but unmistakable.

"Nat?" Sam whispers and Steve shakes his head. "Clint?" Another negative.

"Both," Bucky concludes.

"Wow," Sam says, "you just don't know how to chill."

Instead of answering, Steve leans back and covers his face with his arm. Bucky looks at Sam, Sam looks at Bucky. The silence is only interrupted by Nat's distant laughter.

"It's expected," Tony's voice breaks through suddenly. "Bucky's his bee-ef-ef. His beefy. Beef. I need a hamburger. JARVIS—"

"Right away, sir."

Steve whines before curling up on his side, his back to them. Sam is biting his lips, making mirth bubble up in Bucky's chest as well.

"Ok, ok," Bucky says, not trying to hide the chuckles. "This all started when Sam accidentally took my hoodie. Tony thought he did it to piss me off, so he stole it and brought it back. These two kept wearing my clothes, they won me over with scent. Maybe the same will work for you?"

Slowly, so very slowly, Steve turns to look at Bucky, incredulous. Right. That won't help. Bucky rubs at his chin, biting the inside of his cheek while Steve mumbles something about juice and walks inside.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Tony asks, eyes still carefully trained on Clint and Nat.

"We're not getting involved," Sam replies.

"We have to share the good fortune, buttercup."

"Tony—"

"Let's help them," Bucky says.

Sam looks at him for a very long time. He huffs, leans back. "Start with Clint, but don't take his clothes. _Add_ Steve's in."

Bucky grins at Sam in thanks. Just then, Tony clears his throat.

"Get Steve to learn sign," he says. "Shortest way to Nat's heart is through Clint."

Sam agrees with a nod. Bucky rolls his neck and shoulders, shifts the plates of the arm to stealth mode. "Looks like I have some clothes to steal. Be right back, dolls."

~


	36. Natasha & Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter. We're getting close to the end now. It's exciting in a way and a little sad in another way. But hey, when one series end, another takes its place!  
> Many thanks to Tanouska for the edits. :)  
> Have a nice weekend there!

The night air is cool against Sam's skin where he sits on the concrete surface of the balcony. The tower is tall enough for the street noise, even this late at night, to be muffled and Sam lets the nightmare wash over him in silence. He's pacing his breathing, still shaky, when the light comes on inside. In a split second reaction Sam shifts toward the shadows, hidden at the corner of the wide glass door.

Inside the living room Clint paces, frantically. He's drawing in air in gasps, fingers trembling as he fumbles with his t-shirt. His eyes are moving about, skipping, scared, and Sam has half a mind to go in there and _help_ because hey, he's just calmed himself down. Yet, he doesn't really know what Clint needs in moments like these. Maybe he wants to be alone.

Before he can decide, though, Natasha walks in. She's clearly just woken up, hair in disarray, fuzzy slippers half hidden by Iron Man pajama pants and the rest of her swimming in one of those oversized black hoodies Tony keeps buying for everyone. Sam has two just like that in his closet.

It soon becomes clear that Natasha was called here specifically to calm Clint down, either by JARVIS or by Clint himself. She removes two knives from him—and where those were hidden, Sam can't tell—before steering Clint to the sofa. Natasha sits on his legs, hands on his shoulders, and talks to him. Too quietly for Sam to make out, but she speaks. When Clint's gasps lessen into actual breaths, she touches his face.

It's so gentle, it hurts Sam. Somewhere inside his chest need blooms, for the same caresses, for someone to be there for him when he wakes from the terrors—

Sam shakes his head. That's a dangerous thing to want, especially among these guys. Natasha and Clint might be close, but the others are almost cold to each other. Disconnected.

On the sofa, Natasha pulls her hoodie off, and Sam readies himself to reveal himself because he doesn't want to intrude more. Natasha, though, dresses Clint in the hoodie, quietly this time, before pulling him in a hug. She rocks them both, Clint's hands gripping at her back for a long while.

And then Bruce comes in, beelines to the sofa, kisses Clint. Bruce looks too soft to be able to carry Clint, yet he walks right out with Clint curled up in his arms.

Alone, Natasha stands and stretches. She stares at the doors for a while, making Sam hold his breath, but in the end she just leaves.

This is how it starts.

~

The second time Sam sees something he doesn't think he's supposed to see, he's just stepping out of the gym shower. The locker room door is ajar and sounds are drifting in from the gym. It's curiosity that brings him to sneak a peek, because what he hears sounds pained and that's just not right.

The view sticks his breaths to his throat. On the mats Natasha lies on her back, fingers fisted in Tony's hair. He's stretched out next to her, limbs askew, head on her belly.

And he cries. Loud, ugly sobs that wreck through Sam, making his own eyes water.

She's saying nothing, just scratches at one of Tony's arms, from shoulder to fingertips. Sam catches himself following the gesture with his own nails against his skin and steps away.

~

Not two days later, Sam stops outside the kitchen to watch the scene inside. It's becoming a habit.

Rhodes is sitting at the counter, head on his crossed forearms. He sniffles while Natasha pets the back of his head, down his spine, and again. And again.

"Is just unfair," Sam hears Steve whine somewhere out of sight. "Come on, please."

It sounds like it's been going on for a while because Natasha rolls her eyes with a put upon sigh.

"For fuck's sake, Rogers," she mutters, then removes her hoodie.

She throws it to the side and not a few seconds later, Steve shuffles closer wearing it. He sits next to Rhodes, humming contentedly when Natasha alternates between scratching the back of his neck and caressing Rhodes. Like a couple of dogs, Sam thinks, and has to hurry off before laughter fills him.

~

A few things become clear to Sam. Natasha is not as cold as he thought and the team is not as disjointed as it seemed at first glance. The only outsiders here are him and Barnes.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and a deeper hurt whenever he witnesses Natasha comfort someone. At the same time, he's not sure he's ready to commit to them.

But then, _then_ he sees something else. He notices the way Natasha looks at Bucky, something hidden under her scrutinizing stare.

He sees her standing alone on the balcony in the middle of the night with an arm wrapped loosely around herself. Watches her train by herself to the point of exhaustion. Notices the way her hands shake after a kill.

She offers care, but receives none in return.

And Sam itches to _do_ something.

The opportunity arises when one of Bucky's hoodies makes its way into his clean laundry pile. He knows it's Bucky's because of the frayed edges on the sleeves, the way the left arm is stretched ever so slightly. Sam hasn't even worn his once.

So he goes to Nat's quarters, slips the hoodie in her closet.

~

It unfolds slowly. Nat wears Bucky's clothes and Bucky seems to like her scent on them. They both look better, less dark circles around their eyes, less fatigue in the sets of their bodies.

Sam expected to feel satisfaction; instead, he's hollow.

"What are you doing?" Nat's voice drifts over from the doorway and Sam startles bad enough to drop his stack of clothes on the floor.

"Packing," he says, not looking at her. He focuses on gathering t-shirts.

"Why?"

Sam inhales, meaning to throw some casual lie about needing time alone, but a shaky sigh comes out instead. And the door closes with a loud click. He swallows.

"I know you've been watching," she says. "And I know you're the one who kept putting Bucky's clothes in my room."

Sam closes his eyes against the silence that follows. What does he even say to that, how could he explain—

"All you have to do," Nat whispers, really close, "is ask."

He forces his eyes open, stares at his own hands for a long while. "What if you can't give me what I want?"

"Try me."

Sam inhales. "I want you to let me take care of you like you care for the others," he says, then dares  _ look _ .

She's frozen, eyes wide, for just a fraction of a second, before a mask falls into place. "You don't know what I need."

He nods, slowly. "You could tell me." This isn't going anywhere, Sam thinks when she shakes her head, so he drops the t-shirt he's been holding and turns to face her fully. "Look, I _need_ to be useful to at least one person, but you're supporting everyone yourself and—"

"Lie."

Sam blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Lie to me. Pretend you're Bucky," she rasps. "Tell me you love me and let me dream. Can you do that, Sam?"

She sounds defeated, like she can't expect him to—

Like she can't believe she's worthy of—

Sam's heart beats wildly in his chest, halfway crawling into his throat, when he realizes. "I love you," he says, startled.

She looks just as surprised, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small smile. "You're a good liar," Nat says right before she pulls him in for a kiss.

~

Sam stares at the ceiling, hand fisted in Bucky's hoodie. He's been wearing them during his time with Nat for the past few weeks and it's finally taking a toll. His feelings for Nat are real, but they're also mingling with something unexpected that he's developing toward Bucky.

This is—

Maybe he should leave, after all. Cut his losses.

He needs air, suddenly, so he removes the garment, skin too heated, before leaving Nat's bedroom.

The balcony is silent and Sam is brought back to that moment where all this began. He feels swept off his feet, drifting somewhere far away, ready to drown.

"I wish I didn't love you," he tells the slumbering city.

A snort comes from the side and Sam jumps out of his skin when he sees Bucky stand in a dark corner. "Don't say that," he mutters.

"What would you know, huh?" Oblivious, thy middle name is Bucky Barnes. Or the other way around. Sam might be a little bitter right now.

"I know," Bucky says mildly as he approaches.

He stops next to Sam, surveys the skyline while Sam dreams about them holding hands. He scowls at himself with a grimace.

"You don't think I'm capable of love?" Bucky asks, defensive, and Sam forces his forehead to smooth.

"No, I—"

"I can," Bucky murmurs, looking at his feet. "I do."

A pang travels through Sam's chest. Great, just great. "Who?" he asks, thankful his voice doesn't shake.

"You're gonna laugh at me," Bucky tells the cement.

"Nah," Sam forces out. Nevermind laughing, he hopes he won't bawl like a little kid, but he must know. Maybe it's Nat and then she and Bucky would be happy and Sam could move on. "Who is it?"

Bucky hesitates for long moments, fingers twitching around the hem of his sleeve.

"Two people," he finally says, "who have access to my clothes, have been wearing them. That's who I fuckin' love, and I don't even know—"

The bubble of relief that breaks in Sam's throat gurgles out loud in the darkness. Sam can't stop himself from grinning then, a sweet ache spreading through his chest.

"Asshole," Bucky grits and punches his shoulder.

"No, I'm happy for you," Sam says and his cheeks already hurt.

Bucky narrows his eyes, suspicious.

"Promise," Sam says, raising a hand. He sits on the ground, gestures to the spot next to him. "Tell me about them."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Sam nods. "Let me help you."

With a sigh, Bucky joins him. "Fine, but stop grinning. Stop it."

Sam laughs.

~

"Nat, Nat, wake up," Sam says as he shakes her shoulder. She groans and turns away, but Sam's already sauntering to the blinds to open them.

Light floods the room, eliciting an even angrier sound from Nat, who worms herself completely under the comforter. Sam crawls on the bed next to her, pulls at the covers until her glaring face is right next to his on the pillow.

"I love you," he says, unable to dim his smile, or the wetness forming in his eyes. "And Bucky loves  _ us _ , and I know you don't feel that way for me, but I think we should give him what he—"

Nat's mouth is suddenly on his, effectively cutting him off. She leans back too soon, but there's a pleased smirk there, one she's trying to hide against the pillow.

Oh. Oh!

"Since when?" he asks.

"Not sure."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

She shrugs, mask cracked enough for vulnerability to show. "I'm not a good person, Sam."

Sam pushes the hair out of her face, considering. "Good enough for me."

"I lie and hide."

"I pretended to be Bucky just so I can hold you," he counters.

"We're idiots."

"Yeah."

She kisses him again. "So... Bucky?"

"I'm game if you are."

"You're full of surprises," Nat says, wiggling closer. "Now surprise me with some coffee."

Sam grins.

~

That afternoon they find a note in Bucky's closet, calling for them, and they ask for trust.

Steve falls asleep with his head in Sam's lap a couple of days later, Clint steals his cookies, Tony brings him coffee. And just like that, he realizes he hasn't been as disconnected as he thought, when Bruce consults him regarding the merits of green versus purple shirts.

Something new unfurls ahead, as they wait for Bucky's answer, and Sam's ready.

Has been, unknowingly, for a while.

~


	37. Rhodey & Clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Yes, I'm still a little behind on updating fic and series. The heat here is brain-melting but being on vacation means I can be lazy for a change. Sleep in. Stuff like that.  
> Many thanks to aw-hawkeye-no for the plotting and to Tanouska for the edits.  
> I hope you're all having a nice relaxing weekend there.  
> Thank you for reading and enjoy!

Jim is in Tony's well stocked lab, fiddling with the repulsors of his gloves, when a tuft of sandy blond hair enters his field of vision.

"You're not Tony," Barton says, face scrunched up in confusion, like he genuinely expected Tony to be there.

"What gave it away?" Jim returns, amused, not really waiting for an answer.

"Hair's shorter," Barton tells him, entirely serious. "That, and you should be called Iron Buddy 'cos you're the best bud Stark has."

"How would you know that?" Jim asks, raising an eyebrow, warmed at the recognition most people fail to give him. Not that he minds, but still. It's nice, for a change.

Barton scratches his cheek. "I'm a spy," he mumbles, turning away.

Is he blushing? Jim opens his mouth, ready to ask, because he hasn't really interacted with Hawkeye so far and knows almost nothing about the man. Before he can say anything, though, an arrow is held in front of his face, shaft almost touching his nose.

"Fix?" Barton asks, resolutely looking away.

He's—he's being fucking _cute_ and Jim doesn't need this.

"Only if you ask nicely, agent Barton," he answers, pushing his voice towards chilly.

"Nnh." Wide eyes look at him. "Call me Clint?"

Then he scratches the back of his neck, sends his hearing aid to the floor. He fumbles with his hands in mid air, dropping the arrow in the process and then—

A crunch is heard from under Barton's boot.

"I can fix that, too," he says.

Barton—no, Clint—smiles at him so brightly that Jim almost swears out loud.

~

All his life Jim has managed to develop crushes in under five minutes and ninety percent of those have turned into friendships. He's used to it. Get smitten, wait a couple of weeks, then watch as the feeling fades to make way for something else. Usually platonic. It's rare when nothing comes of it, the connections lost to never be picked up again. Jim's used to the process. It's like his heart is telling him 'hey, this person would be good in our life.' So Jim follows and it's satisfying. It's how he grew close to Pepper and Natasha and Maria. It's how he started his monthly games of chess with Phil. Why he's still having shooting matches with Sam. How he ended up helping Steve with his wardrobe, even though Tony insists he ruined Steve's image and should never be forgiven.

So crushing on Clint is not unexpected and Jim patiently waits for it to give way to budding friendship.

What he doesn't expect, however, is to see Clint wearing Barnes' hoodie, of all people. Even more surprising is his own reaction to it. Jim's angry, but he tries to hide it while he focuses on Clint's aid, that again, got damaged.

"What happened this time?" he asks Clint, who shrugs from his place on the rolling chair next to Jim. "Sometimes I think you're doing it on purpose."

Clint squeals a 'no' and instead of being amusing, it twists something in Jim's gut. So Clint's playing games. Fine. Time to cut his feeling from the root. He gestures with his screwdriver at Clint.

"So that's not on purpose either? Didn't know you and Barnes are swapping... stuff."

Jim adds Tony's best leer to it, too. Just to be sure. If he pisses Clint off, then maybe he'll be able to stay angry at the archer.

Instead of some flippant comment, like Clint usually throws when he's teased, there's silence. Jim dares a glance, only to find Clint looking like he's swallowed the proverbial canary.

"I'm just," Clint mumbles, fiddling with the other aid in his ear, "don't tell him. Please."

Oh, fuck. Jim groans as a warm pang travels through his chest.

"You're adorable," his mouth says before his brain catches up.

Clint definitely blushes this time.

"You know what happened to him, and to me," Clint finally says, "and sometimes there's nightmares." He waves a hand and Jim nods in understanding. "It's just—it's so soft," Clint adds, eyes settled on the sleeve in front of him.

"It helps," Jim concludes.

Clint nods, sadness etching his features, and Jim returns to fixing the aid.

~

Jim can't, for the love of him, push his infatuation away. This hasn't happened before and it scares him. He'd like to go back to being angry, but it's obvious there's nothing between Clint and Barnes. Bucky. The other James with an asshole of a self-sacrificing best friend. Jim's been spending time with him, coaxing stories of Steve in the middle of the night and rewarding with tales of Tony's own adventures.

~

"When's Tony back?"

Jim looks up, blinks. "Uh, I don't know. Why?"

"He said he'd fix a connection," Bucky says, pointing around his left shoulder. "It's pinching."

There's a small crease between his eyebrows. Damn, the thing must be hurting.

"I can take a look," Jim tells him. "JARVIS, open the lab."

Bucky is surprised, but he follows, and only after Jim is figuratively elbows deep in the arm does he realize how much Bucky's trusting him with this.

"Hey, so," Jim says as he fixes the metal plate back in its place, but finds no other words to follow through. His eyes fall onto the sweater that Bucky has draped over the back of the chair. Jim bites his lip while Bucky stares expectantly. "What's with the thick clothes? It's summer."

There's a sheepish quirk to Bucky's mouth as he pulls the item to him, then over his head.

"I think somebody's been wearing it and it's... it's nice. Y'know?" His mouth is moving, twisting in a smile—

Jim blinks.

He must've been silent for too long, because Bucky shuffles on his feet, raking his flesh hand through his hair. "Forget about it," he mumbles. "Thanks for the fix."

He's out the door before Jim even registers what happened.

So Bucky is oblivious to Clint's borrowing of clothes. Jim rewinds the conversation in his head and the moment he realizes Bucky finds the smell of another on his hoodie comforting, Jim's gone.

For that small pained smile hidden under layers of darkness.

For the way Bucky pushes his nose in the hem of his sweater and inhales like that's the only thing that keeps him alive. He hasn't noticed it before, but now it's the only thing Jim can think about.

It happens, like usual, from one second to the next. This time, though, Jim resolutely ignores his crush.

~

Yeah, who is he kidding. Jim shakes his head when he finds himself standing in the middle of Bucky's closet, ready to snatch that hoodie away. It already smells like Clint.

Jim hugs it to his chest and tries not think about what he's doing.

~

Two weeks later he's in one of JARVIS' control rooms, deleting footage of himself sneaking into Bucky's room, when JARVIS pings with a notification. Jim turns on the feed to the balcony on a nearby monitor, to be met with Bucky and Clint leaning against the banister, backs to the city.

"You requested to be alerted when the topic of stealing clothes comes up," JARVIS says.

"Yes, thank you."

Jim flicks on the audio, too. On screen, Clint slurps something from his purple mug, most likely coffee.

"So you have no idea who's breaking into your room?" Clint asks.

"No," Bucky says, shaking his head. "JARVIS won't tell, either. I mean, how can he not have any recording whatsoever? How do two people go unnoticed here, there's cameras everywhere."

Bucky even points at the one relaying the video to Jim himself and he flinches back involuntarily.

"Two?" Clint asks, eyebrows so high up his forehead, they're almost running into his hairline.

Jim switches the feed off, heart pumping too heavily in his chest.

"Perhaps it's time for honesty," JARVIS says and Jim scowls at the wall.

Maybe Clint won't figure out it's him.

~

He can't be sure, now, can he, because Clint is observant by nature. So Jim does the only thing he's never done before. He ignores his feelings, ignores JARVIS' unsolicited advice, and skillfully avoids Clint.

It's the middle of the night, two days later, when it all comes to a screeching halt. Jim's sitting on the floor of his bedroom, back to the bed, staring unseeing at the city lights stretching outside the window. From up here everything looks small—

A bang on the glass startles him.

Clint, hanging on a wire, glares at him. He hits the pane with his closed fist a couple more times before Jim finally moves to open the window.

"What the fuck are you doing out there?" Jim asks while Clint unhooks the line and lets it hang outside.

"Couldn't hack the door lock," he says, like it's obvious.

But he's still on the window sill, crouching there, and Jim grabs his arm to pull him inside. Soon, they're standing next to each other, Jim staring at Clint with crossed arms and Clint looking at everything else but Jim.

"You're avoiding me," Clint finally mumbles. "Nat says it's because you like me. Like, really like me. And I wanted to prove her wrong."

He peers up at Jim then, through his eyelashes, and even in the low light Jim can see uncertainty there. Maybe some hope.

"Uh," Clint continues, rummaging through a pocket, "she said to give you this," and hands over a small envelope.

It's sealed and Jim opens it warily. Inside there' a note in Natasha's neat handwriting.

_ 'Clint may not be as emotionally constipated as Tony, but he still needs help. Don't hurt him.' _

Jim snorts. Help with what? He's ready to ask that out loud when the last three words start making sense. Huh. Jim takes a steadying breath and by the time he inhales again, his mind is made up. Like that time when he met Tony and decided it was the best day of his life. Well, this here might be his best night. Or worst. But he can't know unless he takes the leap.

"I like you a lot, Clint," he says. "And now I'm pretty sure you like me, too?"

He didn't mean it to sound like a question, but Clint nods, confirming, finally looking at Jim head on.

"Smooch worthy?"

"I'm amenable to smooches," Jim says. There's a smile that pulls at his lips and he lets it form only half way. "But first we must talk about Bucky."

Clint whines, honest to Thor whines.

"Look," Jim starts, but stops when Clint raises a hand.

"Hold on," he mutters, sticking his hand in another pocket. "Here, he left this."

It's another note, this time from Bucky.

_ 'Please. Come out. I need you.' _

"I don't know what to do," Clint says while Jim's still processing this new information. "I like you and him and I don't want to choose."

"Do you think this is for both of us?"

Clint blinks.

"From what I understand Bucky knows it's two of us."

"Yeah?" Clint returns, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

"Then don't choose."

The brightness that takes over Clint's face turns Jim's insides into a swarm of butterflies.

~

Later, when they make their way to Bucky's bedroom for the first time, hand in hand on the silent corridors, Jim asks.

"Why me? When?"

Clint slows down then and Jim matches his pace.

"First time I saw you," he says, "I was on assignment. There was a threat on some Embassy gala. Nat was there, too, but I don't think you saw either of us."

"I remember that night. Almost took a bullet—"

"While disarming the perp. Hottest thing I ever saw. Nat had to drag me away so I didn't blow my cover."

Jim's eyebrows climb up his forehead with surprise. "That did it for you?"

Clint shrugs, cheeks pink.

"It was eight years ago."

Another shrug and the blush spreads to the back of Clint's neck. 

"So that's how it is," Jim comments, amused.

"Not just that." Clint is too serious when he looks up. "You have a big heart and you're kind and all this violence that surrounds us hasn't brought you down. I—" His throat works as he searches for words and Jim swallows involuntarily.

"Later," he says and Clint startles. "Tell me later. After we get Bucky."

Clint's shoulders slump with relief at that. Jim smiles.

"How come you can read me so well?"

"Secret," Jim says and leans over to kiss Clint's cheek.

Not much later they're standing in front of Bucky's door, hand in hand, as it opens without sound.

~

Stray beams of sunlight fall onto the kitchen table while Jim replaces the batteries in Clint's aids. The weight of his sleepy form is pressed warmly into Jim's side and he only twitches when taking large gulps from his oversized coffee mug.

Bucky turns from the stove with a plate of french toast, sits on Jim's other side, and Jim fixes Clint's aids back around his ears.

It's quiet and still and Jim's chest aches sweetly.

He picks up Bucky's hand, places a kiss on it before snatching a slice. "Know what I was thinking?" he asks.

Bucky makes a questioning hum, still chewing, while Clint bring the mug to his lips again.

"You and me should spar," he tells Bucky. "Privately. Preferably shirtless."

Clint chokes.

Yes, it might be unusual and hard at times. But Jim likes this new outcome to his crushes. Likes it a lot.

~

 


	38. Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone  
> This is it, the last chapter. For those of you who've read the first one long ago, I recommend skimming it or re-reading first. Let me know what you think :) How good of a surprise is this? Or how bad!  
> I might not tag the last ship or the last characters, not sure yet. It might spoil the surprise. On the other hand, it might remain undiscovered. Hm, to tag or not to tag. Decisions, decisions.  
> Thank you all for staying with me throughout this journey, for reading and suggesting (looking at you, Sanders) and commenting. And we all should thank Tanouska for inducing motivation and for the beta reads and the editing and being strong in the face my whining (and the artwork in first chapter!).  
> Enjoy & have a lovely week there! o/

With a soft sigh, Bucky opens his eyes against the darkness. He waits until the feeling of warm bodies next to him dissipates before taking off the helmet. He knows she's watching even without looking across the space toward the other chair. Bucky closes his eyes again, presses his palm tightly on his eyelids.

Footsteps resound in the silence, light against the metal floor, but the movement stops before reaching him. He knows exactly where she stands now, she always picks that spot, right in the center of the medbay, on top of the welding line that marks the median of the ship. Bucky almost hates that spot. It's like a barrier that keeps her there, in that all-seeing head tilt, her dark eyes pools that suck him in. She studies him too intently at times and Bucky wishes she'd just walk closer.

Because—because, sometimes, it's not enough.

The VR helmet creaks between his metal fingers and he forces himself to release it.

"You've been out for twelve hours," she says.

A warning.

His body could take it for longer, it's not like he's doing anything, just sitting in the reclining chair that reminds him too much of _other_ things. Things best left unspoken. Not that it matters, not now, not here.

Here, everything is—

"You can't go back in," she insists, and this is new.

Bucky can hear the concern there, even though her voice is monotone, but he can't tell if she's concerned about him or their mission. He knows the answer regardless, chooses not to dwell on it.

"Too hungry to go back anyway," he mutters.

There's a long moment of silence before she speaks again.

"Strange came by, he brought something called pizza."

And that propels Bucky to his feet, his stomach grumbling loudly and mouth watering.

"Did you try it yet?" he asks as he makes his way through the narrow corridors toward the mess.

"No."

"Maybe it's still warm," he comments more to himself than anything. Not that Nebula will know the difference, but she should get the whole experience. This is a thing from home and a glimpse of a normalcy that's just not possible anymore.

"The containers are emanating heat," she says.

"Containers?"

And that's when Bucky stumbles into the mess to be met with a stack of six large pizza boxes on the table. He spares no time in opening them all, the aroma of New York specialties filling the air. At this point Bucky would've eaten any sort of topping, but it seems that Strange covered all the basics. There's even one with onions and mushrooms and Bucky hates onions, but he's grinning like a lunatic.

Nebula tilts her head at him as he tries to stuff a slice full of bacon in his mouth. Bucky waves at the food, a "dig in" muffled by his byte, and she takes a wary seat across from him.

"You're making Quill look elegant in comparison," she says.

Bucky laughs and has to cover his mouth so he doesn't send half chewed bits everywhere. He smacks his free hand on his chest, mocking hurt.

Her lips twitch in amusement and some of the tension in Bucky's shoulders subsides. It's just a reprieve, but he's going to enjoy it, so as soon as he manages to swallow, he starts detailing each type of pizza to her.

~

"Where's Vision?" he asks her that afternoon. Or maybe it's another afternoon, he's not entirely sure. Time is meaningless here.

"Still doing the systems diagnostics. He should be done in one hour and twenty eight minutes, give or take a few seconds," Nebula says as she fiddles with her chair's connectors.

She doesn't need a helmet, can just plug in, and Bucky still shudders at the sight of her head open. His flesh hand cups his left elbow before he can stop himself. He only had his arm replaced, but she—her brain—Bucky's had his head fucked with, but she had her entire brain removed. He wonders if there's even a trace left of the being she was when she was born. It's doesn't matter, though. She is what she is now and her presence is keeping Bucky sane.

"Did Strange give you an update?"

"He hasn't found the source, but he thinks a magic user is responsible."

"Magic," Bucky mutters, rubbing at his face.

"I call it tech," Nebula returns, dry and just as fed up as Bucky.

"You know, Thor says magic is just advanced technology, but that it's our joy in using it that matters most."

She scoffs. "Asgardians."

Bucky has nothing more to say and he fights the sigh that wants to escape his lungs. He fears it would sound too irreversibly defeated. "How long has it been?"

Nebula ignores him as she lies back in her chair, closing her eyes, and Bucky leaves her to it. He checks the system timers instead. He still has about four hours before the next session, so he makes his way to the cockpit.

Between the two pilot chairs, Vision sits slumped with his back against the center console. His legs are stretched, arms at his sides, and the thick connector of the on-board system plugged into the back of his neck. Bucky shivers. The helmet is not as invasive and he still feels the sharp sting of his neurons connecting to it, but this... this is a whole different level.

He sits on the left, letting his fingers brush on Vision's shoulder as he leans onto the armrest.

Up ahead, the void of space stretches beyond the canopy, beyond the planet caught mid-explosion. Strange says it's more of a moon than a planet, too large to be an asteroid. Unnatural.

Someone made it and dragged it here, where it started sending a pulse signal, calling. Bucky glances right, then left. Many ships drift around them, most of them hollow and dead, the others caught in stillness. As Bucky understands it, the signal generated by this fake-planet is killing everything in its proximity. It would've been just a matter of sealing off the region and issuing warnings for all to stay clear, if it weren't for the fact that the pulse is increasing in intensity with every life lost.

When it became apparent the effect was expanding, Quill contacted Strange and he got a hold of Thor while on Earth and that meant Tony got involved and then Steve and—

Bucky shakes his head. There wasn't an enemy to fight, not really, and yet they all came here. To make matters worse, they arrived right in time to deter a bunch of mercenaries from trying to harness the energy of the thing. It was chaos for two days as more people arrived and by the time they figured out what was going on, the equivalent of a nuke was already burrowing under the surface of the planet.

He doesn't really remember what happened afterward. Or at least he isn't sure of the series of events. But he does know that some of the ships around them flew straight into the signal's reach in an attempt to intercept the weapon, which caused almost immediate death and an expansion of the field, which in turn reached Quill's ship.

The breath that leaves Bucky trembles.

If it weren't for Strange locking them in a time suspension bubble, they'd all be dead right now. Even so, the rest of Bucky's team—his friends, his _family_ —are still affected. Whatever the signal does, it has locked into their cells somehow, on a level that not even Strange can comprehend, which is pretty disturbing.

A click and a whir bring Bucky back to the present and he watches Vision come back to himself. He unplugs from the console before standing, mechanical irises shifting for a while before he sets his gaze on Bucky.

"How long has it been?" Bucky asks.

"Nine years, two months, and three days."

Bucky swallows. He thought it would be less. Or more. Or _something_ , he doesn't know what. The number is always jarring and he always tries to forget it.

"Are you sure?"

"My internal clock is not affected by the time distortion," Vision tells him.

"Strange was here," Bucky says instead of anything else.

"The system logged his conversation with Nebula. I'm up to date. Do you need anything?"

Bucky shakes his head, but Vision doesn't leave. He sits in the other chair, lifts his legs onto the console. In moments like these he looks almost human.

Almost? Bucky frowns at himself. He might not be human, but he is sentient. He can _feel_ , just like Bucky. Just like Nebula, although she'd die before admitting to any emotion. Humans don't have a monopoly on feelings, Bucky reckons as he lifts his metal palm before him. He's not entirely human himself, if he goes by a strict definition. Few of them are, anymore.

"Do you miss them?"

Vision shifts in a more comfortable position, interlocking his fingers in his lap, and rolls his head toward Bucky. "Yes."

"Me, too," Bucky admits, looking away. "I keep thinking, what if I mess it up? What if I can't do this? What if I lose one of them?"

"You won't," Vision says, confident.

Bucky's not so sure. He's not the best man for the job, his own mind scattered in so many jagged pieces that he's amazed he managed to hold on for this long. He's not sure why him—

"Because you and Nebula were closest to me when we were hit," Vision says and only then Bucky realizes he's voiced his question. "I reacted rashly, and for that I am sorry, but I don't regret that I kept you from being affected. I understand it's difficult for you, to keep them occupied, and maybe it would've been easier to let you go, to let everyone die."

Vision stop abruptly and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.

"You want to die."

Does he? Not really. Bucky swallows again and again, until he can unclench his jaw enough to speak.

"I just want it to be over."

"Why?"

The snort that travels up his nose is so loud, it's almost painful, and it makes Bucky look at Vision again, incredulous. "Really?"

"Yes. Wh—" Vision seems to be reconsidering his words and Bucky raises an eyebrow. "I keep asking if you need anything and you always say nothing. Please, reconsider. I'll provide as much as I possibly can to help you. Nebula likes to spar until she's too bruised to stand. So, tell me, what is the thing that gives you most hardship right now?"

There's a lump in Bucky's throat as he singles out the thought he's been ignoring for a long while now. He wraps his arms around himself. Would Vision really do it?

Bucky shakes himself internally. That's dangerous.

"Let's spar," he says instead, his flesh trembling in anticipation.

Any contact is good contact, right?

~

Bucky sets the helmet down and stretches, still a little sore. Vision went easy on him, but he still had a good workout and today he's not even lingering that much on _other things_. Desperate things. Across, Nebula is still connected, her eyelids twitching at intervals as she moves through whatever construct her mind conjures. Sometimes Bucky wishes he knew what fantasies she uses.

Of course, they all know what Bucky does, because he's the only one with a fully biological brain—a damaged one at that, but neither of the other two are saying it out loud. They had to come up with a well crafted scenario that Bucky can actually sustain. It would get repetitive after a while, but as long as he keeps the core intact, he can play with the details. It's second nature to him, already, to be in that place where he's comforted and cared for. It's so easy to lose himself in the fabrication of what his life might be like in another time, another place.

That's why coming back to reality is so harsh.

Today he's feeling a little braver than usual, so he rolls off the chair and, instead of walking out, he makes his way to the wall behind him. Where the pods are.

He's starting to forget Pepper's face, of all things, so he pulls her drawer out. Her skin is caught in a permanent smolder, her serum still fighting against death even in suspended animation, and Bucky leans his forehead on the glass. He's trying—and failing—to see her features under the bright vines marring her skin. He shifts enough to slide open the one next to her. Bruce is caught halfway turning into Hulk, skin green and body contorted, but he still looks like him.

Bucky moves to the next, and the next. Steve's eyes are stuck open, unseeing. Clint, Natasha, and Tony look the most ashen of them all. Red particles surround Wanda in her own pod, as if she's disintegrating right before his eyes and Bucky kisses the glass above her forehead. She was the first to get hit, first to scream, the sound still echoing in the recesses of Bucky's mind.

Thor and Jane are next to each other. They look rather peaceful and Bucky, for the hundredth time, wonders why Jane. She wasn't even supposed to be here. Neither was Sam. Sam was out the door, going to visit his mother. Bucky shudders and pulls at Jim's drawer.

"Did Tony learn snark from you, or you from him?" he asks under his breath.

No answer comes, as expected.

He hasn't interacted that much with most of them, before—before _this_. Hadn't really had the chance, or the will, or the energy. Now, though, he knows them. He understands each and every one, knows their quirks and their fears. He—

Bucky misses them, dearly.

Because no matter how many times he dives into their unconscious minds, it's not the same as having them alive and warm around him. He wonders if they'll remember when this is finally over. Maybe they won't and Bucky will walk around with so many holes in his heart that he'll barely be able to breathe. Or worse, they'll _know_ and they'll push him away.

Just like Vision, though, he doesn't regret doing this. He's keeping them alive.

More accurately, the suspended animation system is keeping them alive, but because they're in this time bubble, Strange says they need to keep their minds occupied so they don't lose themselves in the agony of slow death.

As he explained it, they're all frozen, but for an infinitesimal amount of time that resets itself over and over again. Bucky and Nebula and Vision are outside of this effect.

Kind of.

How did Strange put it? Still in, but phased out, so Bucky doesn't age, Nebula doesn't degrade, and Vision doesn't get lost inside the mind stone.

Bucky doesn't really understand everything. He only knows he needs to keep doing this.

At least he gets to make them fall in love with each other over stealing Bucky's clothes. At least like this he can pretend they love him too, and it's not just—

"Are you finished?"

Bucky turns from where he's been bending over Rhodes and nods at Nebula, who's now sitting up on the edge of her chair. She starts pulling wires from the side of her head without another word as Bucky watches. The wall behind her doesn't hold as many pods as Bucky's, but it has Groot and from what Vision said, his mind is infinite. And Quill's some sort of demigod. It's one of the reasons why Bucky has more people to care for and Nebula has less. That, and Vision insisted there needed to be a prior connection of sorts between the VR masters and those in pods. He smirks at Maria before sliding her drawer back in. Well at least spilling coffee all over her counts for something.

~

"How long has it been?"

"Nine years, three months, and twenty days," Vision says from his seat at the end of the table. His legs are extended on the bench, almost touching Bucky's thigh, but not quite.

"Stop telling him," Nebula says.

She looks up at Bucky after shoving the last of her meal in her mouth. They're having a dish from a planet Bucky can't pronounce the name of, another one of Strange's personal deliveries.

"Why?" Vision asks her. "Are you afraid the reality of how long he's been stuck here with us will drive him insane?"

"Yes," Nebula says without missing a beat. She's serious, too. Bucky raises surprised eyebrows, but she continues to speak before he can, leaning over the table to point at him. "You don't even _try_ to find release."

It's an accusation if Bucky ever heard one. Again, he wonders if she's really worried about him, or if this is just for the sake of the mission.

"I spar with Vision," he offers.

"I noticed." She leans back, crossing her arms. "But you're even more tense. It's not calming you down."

Fuck.

Bucky's heart speeds in his chest and he pushes it down, forces his breaths to stay even. Nebula tilts her head as if she's listening to him. It can't be, she doesn't have those sort of sensors, does she?

He needs to get out of here.

"I'm fine," he says as he stands, "The mission is not in danger, so you can stop worrying the weak human will mess it up and kill all your friends."

He hurries out the mess before she can say anything.

~

Bucky startles awake and it takes him a moment to get his bearings. He's in one of the pilot chairs up front, a blanket thrown askew over him. He must've dozed off.

He looks around, blinking, until his gaze settles on Vision, lounging in the other seat as if he's at the beach.

"How long has it been?" Bucky really can't tell time in here. It's slippery and elusive.

"Since we started or since you stormed off to sulk?"

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"A few hours," Vision says, disinterested, before he leans around the back of his chair. He takes a long look down the hallways, then turns to Bucky. "She doesn't care."

"What?"

"Nebula. She doesn't care about them. Maybe about her sister, but she doesn't care if any of the others live."

Bucky frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"When you two connected to the system you saw in each other's minds, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Bucky nods slowly. He's seen the horrors Thanos inflicted on her. She's seen what Hydra did to him. The exchange was unwelcome on both their parts, but inevitable because Strange couldn't build two whole systems. The one they have needs constant repair, too, it's why they're the ones diving into the virtual reality and Vision is out here. Besides, swapping memory with him—and thus with the mind stone—would have fried even Nebula's brain.

Wait.

"You saying she cares about _me_?"

"In her own way."

Bucky leans back in his chair, lifting a corner of the blanket. Huh.

"So," Vision says. "What do you need?"

His chest fills with too much hope to disentangle everything he's been pushing aside.

"I don't know," he murmurs.

Vision's hand is warm where it squeezes at his shoulder, as brief as it is. Would they—would they really—

~

One of the storage spaces in the lower decks has a large area cleared of clutter, makeshift weights littering the edges, even some blankets to cushion the floor. Bucky sits on a crate cross legged, cheering in turn for either Vision or Nebula because he's feeling like a little shit today. And it reminds him of Clint sparring with Natasha in the scenario he ran earlier for them. He's a little on edge, but this particular sparring session won't end with Nebula and Vision kissing him within an inch of his life, so all he can do is throw comments.

Vision's body is unbreakable, but he matches his strength to Nebula's. He even makes himself feel the force of her hits.

Maybe he wants contact, too.

Nebula exhales with a grunt as Vision smacks her entire body onto the floor and that hit would've fissured a human spine, but Nebula arches her back, kicks up right into Vision's chin.

"Woo," Bucky hollers and claps. "Getting rusty there, pal."

Vision turns to Bucky as he rolls his jaw. "Could still take you both with ease."

"You might," Nebula says, "but it won't be with ease."

That's too good an opportunity to pass and Bucky is already shucking his hoodie with a grin. He picks up a piece of metal pipe as he rounds the space, twirls it in his flesh fingers. Nebula smirks—she really really smirks, and it's amazing—as she starts moving opposite of Bucky.

"All right," Vision says in his usual calm, but he's smiling, as he tracks them, waiting.

It's not exactly sparring because Bucky laughs too much, getting winded too quickly, and more than once they end up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. But it's good and refreshing. Somehow the chill of the ship is mellowed, the shower he takes after feels hotter, the tension in his body a little less painful.

Later, while they eat their fad protein cubes—actually Bucky and Nebula eat, Vision just sits—the conversation comes back to their current reality. Outside their bubble, merely a second has passed. Strange keeps zapping all over the place, looking for clues as to what has started all of this, and he hasn't had much luck so far, but he's hopeful. Sometimes Bucky wants to punch him in his styled goatee and he would if that cape of his weren't sentiently horrifying.

As it is, all they can do now is wait, keep their charges occupied, keep themselves sane. Kinda.

"It won't last forever," Vision is saying, pulling Bucky out of his thoughts.

He's right, it needs to end one way or another. Either succeed, or give up—he sucks in a breath, unwilling to go there. Not today. Instead, he turns to Nebula.

"So what are you gonna do after we get out of here?"

Her shoulders drop as she straightens, looking surprised. She hesitates, minutely, and if Bucky would've blinked, he would've missed it.

"Resuming my quest to destroy Thanos," she says, then steps away from the table.

She's in the corner, pushing buttons on the liquids dispenser when Vision's foot pokes Bucky's thigh.

"What about you?"

Bucky shrugs. "I don't know. Get—get back? I guess. It won't be the same, will it?"

"It won't," Vision says quietly.

With a long exhale, Bucky leans his forehead in his metal palm, the coolness soothing. "What happens in there changes everything. Can't look at them the same, it's too real for something so immaterial."

"Do you need anything?" Vision asks, the same question that Bucky is not brave enough to answer.

He shakes his head and he stands. "I need to stop living in a dream," he mutters to himself as he slips out of the mess.

~

"What are you searching for?"

Bucky looks up from where he's wedged between two crates, waves at Vision. "My black hoodie. Last I remember wearing it was before we sparred."

"Maybe you left it upstairs?"

With a shrug and a scratch to his head, Bucky turns toward the exit. Vision is on his trail as he climbs to the sleeping quarters and—

Huh.

The hoodie is on his bed, all right, but Nebula is wearing, swimming in it. Bucky's heart is stuck in his throat. Do they know? They must know, and while his mind is racing around this new information, his body listens to the nudges Vision applies to his shoulders.

Before he realizes, he's lying on his right side, behind Nebula, his metal fingers fisted in the back of the hoodie. And this just screams so much trust at him because Nebula never turns her back on anyone, on any doorway, on anything. Yet, here she is, facing the wall of the bunk.

Her neck is long and delicate and Bucky wants to touch it, but he can't make himself move. Can't close the distance between them, that forms a chasm too large for being only the width of a palm.

The bed shifts when Vision sits, his thigh a hot line against Bucky's back. He presses, but doesn't push.

Support. Guidance.

A little more of this and Bucky might actually believe that they'd—

"Come on," Vision says, voice quiet in the chilled silence of the room, "take what you need."

It would be really easy to take, but very very hard to stop, and suddenly there's cloying fear coating the inside of Bucky's chest.

"What happens when we get out of here?" he asks, a little too brittle to be kept emotionless, a little too hoarse to hide vulnerabilities.

"We stay together," Vision says.

But that's impossible. Bucky knows, because Nebula has unfinished business that can't be avoided. That needs handling. "What about Thanos?"

"We'll go with her," Vision tells him.

"Do you want that?" Bucky asks them both.

Nebula presses back into his knuckles while Vision gives a clear "yes" that bounces off the walls in a shivering echo. It's this more than anything that pushes him to finally close the distance and wrap himself around Nebula. Behind him, Vision lies down, heat seeping through Bucky's t-shirt in waves, causing his muscles to unwind, his lungs to empty on shuddering exhales. He pats at Vision's forearm where it's wrapped around his and Nebula's sides.

"I thought you'd be colder."

"I turned off my secondary cooling system to match human body temperature," Vision explains.

He's hot and Nebula's skin is still a little chilly, but the contrast is perfectly imperfect. Bucky draws breath, inhales their presence tinged with the smell of circuitry and metal.

"How come you're— _this_ —"

"We figured," Nebula says without turning, "that humans need constant contact. What was it called?"

"Touch starvation," Vision says.

When he followed Steve out into the new world, to the Avengers and their friends, to _safety_ , Bucky didn't notice it, not at first. How Tony always hugged an arm around him, how Clint always sat with him shoulder to shoulder, how Sam and Nat pretended to fight over sitting in his lap just to annoy him. He had had it, then. Contact, affection, touch. Nine years is a long time to go without and his skin's been aching. He burrows closer, but there's still a niggling reticence keeping him on edge. They studied what he needs and are giving it to him. Somehow, it feels disconnected. He should be satisfied with what he's been offered, and yet can't help but be a little selfish. Just for a while.

"So you're only doing this to keep me sane?" His voice doesn't shake, thankfully.

"No, you moron," Nebula says, irritated. "We care about _you_." She stills, tensing, as if she's just now realized what she said.

Bucky grins and presses his face against the back of her neck.

"If you ever repeat that to anyone," Nebula adds, relaxing again, "there will be no pain upon this world worse than what I'll inflict on you."

"I like you, too," Bucky says. "Both of you."

Stillness falls back onto them, breaths evening, and this time it's comfortable. Bucky is content in the midst of this warmth.

"Just so you know," Vision's voice drifts over right as Bucky's slipping into unconsciousness, "I saved a recording of this conversation."

"I will murder you..."

They don't move, even though they keep bickering, and Bucky falls asleep to the lull of their voices.

~

"How long has it been?"

"Twelve years, two months, and two days."

"That's a weird number," Bucky comments.

"It's a number." Nebula shrugs. She's sitting on the edge of the bunk, a leg on the floor, cleaning one of her weapons. Not that she needs it, but the motion is soothing in a way. Easy to watch, too.

The bed is too small for three people, and Nebula is not always so quick to take the spot at the wall—Bucky gets it—so usually he ends up sprawled on top of Vision, with her against the partition at the head of the bed. Like she's keeping watch and it makes Bucky smile.

"What if—" No, that's not right. "Can I—" Bucky tries again, but again it doesn't feel like the thing to say.

"Tell us what you need," Vision says, his hand running up and down Bucky's spine.

"I want," Bucky begins, and yes, that's it. "I _want_ more."

Nebula tilts her head inquisitively.

"Outcomes of affection," Bucky clarifies.

"Like sex?" Vision asks and Bucky raises on one elbow to have a better view of them.

"No, I—" He swallows. "My body doesn't work like that, not anymore."

"Mine neither," Nebula adds.

"I have no use for biological functions," comes from Vision this time and Bucky lets out a breath. Not as difficult as he thought. Okay, they're all on the same page then.

"Kissing. Would you like that?" he offers and this is sending his heart into overdrive already. It's not that he can't do without, but it would be nice, especially with the way his virtual scenarios unfold. It's not a need, it's a _want_ , and it's even scarier than admitting he has feelings for them.

Nebula frowns.

"It's when you touch mouths with another," Bucky explains and receives a full scowl for it.

"I know what kissing is," she sneers.

"Then what?"

She looks away for a while, so Bucky raises to sit on the bed, his position soon matched by Vision.

"I never thought anyone would want," finally comes back, whispery and frail. Then she turns her head sharply toward Vision. "Did you record that, too?"

Vision shakes his head and she ducks hers.

They sit there in silence more awkwardly than they ever did. Bucky takes a breath, plasters on his smile from way back—when Steve was scowly and undatable, when Bucky was smirking and _brave_ —and tips his chin up.

"So who wants to go first?"

He gets shoved off the bed, but then he gets his kisses. Nebula accidentally bites him and Vision doesn't realize he can move his lips until much later, but it's _good_.

Maybe they'll never leave here, but now that prospect isn't as terrifying as it used to be. Or maybe they'll escape, and that thought doesn't worry him either. What they have is not so easily breakable, not now.

~

It's two hours before the thirty six year mark when Strange pops in, out of breath, clothes singed, a little more gray around the temples than Bucky remembers. He's holding an intricately designed shape, says it will stop the signal, then pops back out into the vastness of space.

Bucky barely has time to brace as the fake-planet explodes and their temporal bubble bursts.

Everything that follows is a chaos of reanimating everyone, but not before Strange assures them that the sleepers won't remember anything from during their slumber.

For them, not even half a minute has passed between being hit with sheer torment and waking up in the pods. Bucky tries to refrain from hugging them, but he's way beyond caring. After more than three decades, he's not the guy they used to know.

Nebula is not, either, but now she's back to sitting somewhere in the shadows while Quill's being loud and complaining about the state of his ship.

When she slips out of the room, Bucky finds his own opportunity to get away, unsurprised to see Vision following them. The cockpit is as silent as ever right now, though outside other ships fly about, no doubt trying to make sense of what happened.

"They don't know you," Bucky tells her as he wraps his arms around her slim frame from behind. "They don't know you've changed."

"Did I?"

Vision moves around to stand in front of her, cups her face. "We all did." He kisses her lips before whispering, "Do you need anything?"

Her answer comes faster than Bucky expected, but it's one they know already. "Forgiveness."

Footsteps echo in the hallway, but they stop outside the door.

"Gamora," Nebula whispers.

"Dr. Strange told us what you did," Gamora says without entering. "I can't imagine—" She sighs and the sole of her boot can be heard scuffing at the grating on the floor. "Thank you."

Nebula huffs, almost a laugh, as she goes boneless against them. Outside, the footsteps move away.

"I think that's a start," Bucky says and Vision nods.

"Maybe," Nebula concedes.

No matter that she doesn't really believe it yet. They'll make her see.

"So what now? We go after Thanos?"

With a growl in her throat, Nebula straightens. "Yes."

Vision, however, puts his hands up. "As much as I'm willing to follow you anywhere, I think we should go to Earth for a while first. At least a few days." His eyes flick between Nebula and Bucky, and Bucky rolls his. "It's his family, give him time with them."

She tilts her head in that studying gesture, black eyes like pools drawing him in, cherishing.

"Earth," she says taking his hand, "then Thanos. And I want to try this cotton candy you spoke of. It can't be better than sklem cartilages."

"Oh, it is," Bucky assures her. "It definitely is."

He can't wipe the smile off his face as they make their way back, but he doesn't even really try to. He's lived countless lives inside the virtual reality simulations, has fallen in love over and over. He still loves them, each one burrowed deep inside his heart.

Yet he only needs these two to feel complete. One is peace, the other conflict, and Bucky is at home between them.

Safe, surrounded in their stillness, flesh and metal and his hoodie.

Undoubtedly _alive_.

~

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since many commented on it, I wanted to say: this doesn't erase all those other verses! They all happened in their own timelines. We can have all :) Ah, the beauty of fic.   
> Thank you again for reading!


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